The Detective's Apprentice
by Athena'sDragon
Summary: AU: Mary Russell meets Sherlock Holmes in London at the height of his career. While this changes the dynamic of their partnership, it also introduces challenging new cases and a greater circle of characters into the mix. From disturbed crimes to hilarious banter, the duo make their mark on London- and each other. Inspired by Laurie King's series.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Rather than encountering him in Sussex after his retirement, Mary Russell meets Sherlock Holmes in London at the height of his career. While she still becomes a major part of his life, the dynamic of their partnership is drastically altered by this timeline change. Adventures and drama ensue! Less boring than this makes it sound! :-D

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is based on a story which I began writing a couple of years ago and discarded. After reading Laurie R. King's Mary Russell series, I adapted it to fit that character (I liked her much better anyway).

A note on chronology: there's a load of disagreement out there on the exact timeline of Holmes and Watson's adventures. For my purposes, I will mostly be sticking to the timeline created by Brad Keefauver, with minor adjustments as necessary. I apologize in advance if I do not follow your envisioned chronology but, for the sake of my sanity, I need to have _something_ off of which to work. I'm also going with King's altered canon in that Holmes was 21 when he began his detective career, which I'm taking as 1880. Thus, when the story begins, he is 26.

Also, I will be sticking to modern American spelling/grammar in this story, as I honestly don't have the time to look up alternate spellings based on region and time period. I sincerely apologize for this inaccuracy but I will try to keep to a tone appropriate to the time.

Any inaccuracies besides those discussed above are welcome to be pointed out in the comments! Otherwise, dear readers, please R&R.

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**Chapter I**

On that day in 1885, though it was the middle of March, a deep fog had descended over the whole of London, and I could barely see the crumpled copy of a newspaper which I clutched in my hands. I had scraped it up from the street, damp and dirty, because of the promising article on the front page: "Man's Body Found in Thames, Brutally Stabbed." If my aunt would not let me read these accounts of crime and murder as I wished, I would have to find them myself.

I threaded through the foot traffic effortlessly despite the opaque yellow miasma, working more off of sound than anything else. I turned a corner, descended a flight of steps, and sidestepped a cab without ever taking my eyes off of the page.

My aunt. Even thinking of the woman made me twist my mouth in disgust. Now that she was my caretaker and in charge of the money which my parents had left behind, she was completely free to relocate us to the smelly London flat which we were currently inhabiting. I missed the house in Sussex, though I had only been there a month before we moved. The place held fond childhood memories of walks over the downs with my family, and the farm staff were kind to me. Now my only escape was to the crowded, grimy streets, where I knew no one and wandered solitary.

Just as my scanning eyes reached the end of the article, I collided head-on with a tall young man in a dark coat. I looked up, surprised, just in time to see the scornfully condescending glance he threw my way. "Watch where you're going, young man."

I lifted the brim of my cap with my free hand, just barely allowing my long blonde braids to slither down over my shoulders. "Yes'sah, sorry sah." I couldn't help but smirk at the man's expression of shock as my expensive glasses, Cockney accent, and long hair all registered with him. I had only turned as I walked, though, and a few steps later the man had disappeared back into the fog.

I allowed myself a laugh, sharp and clear in the thick air, as I straightened my spectacles and tucked my hair back under my cap. I understood perfectly London's abundant dangers for any young woman walking by herself, and had found long ago that male dress, along with being more practical, allowed me to slip unnoticed through the narrow streets.

I tossed the newspaper off to one side and continued towards my destination: a crowded, run-down bookshop by the name of Sidney's. The low building materialized in front of me as I crossed the last street and I opened the door, relishing the familiar jingle of the little bell which always welcomed me inside.

Sidney himself leaned against the counter, wizened and ancient, surrounded by teetering, unorganized piles of books. When he squinted through the dim light and recognized me, he grinned, revealing his few remaining teeth.

"Why Miss Russell! What can I do for you today?"

I chuckled. His question and my answer were always the same. "I don't know, Sidney, what do you recommend?"

The old man's eyes lit up and he dug through a few of the smaller piles beneath his counter. Sidney was the only person I had met so far in London who accepted, even encouraged, my habits of male clothing and wandering by myself. He knew little about my background but had probably guessed much. As far as he was concerned, I was welcome to spend the whole day reading in his dingy little shop, and I often made good use of that.

He reappeared moments later clutching two worn volumes. "A little Virgil for the young lady," he said, eyes twinkling as he set down the first book, eliciting a small cloud of dust. "And," he added, pretending to look thoughtful, "what might the date be today?"

"March the thirteenth," I responded automatically.

Sidney grinned. "Beware the Ides of March!" He waved the second book, an ancient copy of Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_, before setting it on top of the first.

I laughed again, comfortable here at least. "Many thanks, Sidney. My aunt has been in quite a mood lately and I expect these to be useful when I'm shut in my room for the next week."

I paid, wishing that I could linger but knowing that I was expected back, and warily began my journey back through the invisible streets to my aunt's home.

* * *

A mere hour later, I stood in my bedroom and examined my transformation. My cap and plaits had been exchanged for a simple bun, my shirt and trousers with an old but functional blue dress. My aunt had spared me a cursory glance and said that it almost matched my eyes- "But not quite."

Until I turned twenty one and my inheritance was mine to do with as I wished, I had to make a living somehow. My reading habit alone was more than my meager allowance could support, not to mention cab fares across the city when I was fed up and wanted to get away. I had given my name and information to one of those ladies' agencies who disdainfully mentions appropriate names when housekeepers come inquiring after maids or governesses. Finally, after nearly two months of waiting, a telegram had come asking for my presence at an interview.

I sat silently in the hansom as it rattled its way towards the agency's building. I would have taken the Underground- Oxford Circus was barely three blocks' walk from the flat- but my aunt would not allow it. She was perhaps more determined than I was that I should find employment, because it would only keep me out of the house and allow her to supply me with even less money than she already did. She had adamantly insisted that I must arrive without the disheveled hair and unseemly smell which, in her opinion, would invariably follow a ride on the train.

I desperately hoped that the situation was a governess for a particularly bright child. At fifteen, however, some maid position was infinitely more likely. I folded my hands in my lap and tried to imagine what a dignified young lady would look like. As far as I knew, I had never spent more than a few minutes in one's company since I had returned to England. Good posture, I thought, and a prim expression. My spectacles must certainly be straight and my accent perfect; no slipping into my father's American drawl.

When the cab shuddered to a stop, I gingerly stepped down and surveyed my surroundings. The fog was still dense, but less so here, farther away from the river. Two ladies in fashionably uncomfortable dresses cast their eyes over me without breaking the rhythm of their steps or conversation. Even with so little regard for others' opinions of me, I still felt an angry flush creep up my neck. I had no wish to enter this world of manners and order and _rules_.

"Mary Russell," I muttered to myself as I made up my mind and stepped purposefully towards the building, "You are probably brighter than anyone else in the room. Keep your wits about you and nothing can touch you."

I was so absorbed in my self-encouragement- and in not tripping up the stairs in my impractical shoes- that, for the second time that day, I ran full into someone. This someone was an older woman, shorter than I was and rather rounder, and her surprised exclamation had just a hint of Scottish in it. Out of habit, I scanned her up and down to learn what I could. The practical bun of white hair spoke of something which required functionality. Housekeeper? No, the expensive rings and brooch said otherwise. But something with similar duties, if her short fingernails and slightly calloused hands were anything to go by. Landlady perhaps?

"Are you Miss Russell?" she asked, startling me out of my observations.

"Why yes," I admitted, trying to smile sweetly and probably grimacing horribly. "Are you Mrs. Hudson?" The telegram had only given the name of my potential employer with no other details.

"Indeed, Miss Russell." She glanced back towards the imposing agency. "I was rather unimpressed with the running of this organization and had just made up my mind to leave." She must have seen my face fall, because she added, "However, the position is still open."

"What kind of position?" I asked eagerly, forgetting all pretenses.

"Maid duties, mostly." Again the disappointment must have shown on my face. "I have a rather difficult lodger, you see, and I'm not able to keep the place quite as orderly as I would prefer. But there would be some cooking involved, and perhaps some special duties for Mr. Holmes."

My interest roused, I stood up straighter. If these 'special duties' were simply an extension of the housekeeping, she would have said so. The way her eyes broke contact with my face spoke of something infinitely more interesting.

"You were hoping for someone older, I suppose?" I asked bluntly, and she looked startled. I made a vague gesture with my hand and made something bordering on a wild guess based on her reaction. "Some danger involved with the position?"

"Why Miss Russell," she exclaimed, "How could you have known that?"

I shrugged in a way that I hoped was mysterious. "Please explain."

There it was again, the way her gaze slid away from my face to somewhere over my left shoulder. "Mr. Holmes has his chemistry experiments," she began cautiously, "and he has clients in at all hours. Sometimes odd people."

_Clients?_ I thought excitedly. _That sounds more than promising._

"Well, I do have a certain knowledge of chemistry," I assured her. "I'm quite well-read." I cast about for anything else I could offer up. "And my aunt, my caretaker, would not mind my assisting you or Mr. Holmes at odd hours. She barely notices when I'm home as it is."

"You do sound like you would fit in well," she admitted, and smiled suddenly. "Especially with your ability to make impossible deductions. I think that Mr. Holmes will like you, which, heaven knows, is as important as anything else for my peace of mind."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

My aunt pushed me out the door the next morning long before I was expected to begin my work for Mrs. Hudson with barely enough breakfast to keep my stomach from growling. She was expecting a gentleman visitor, I thought, which was more than enough motivation to obey her wishes and walk briskly away.

This morning the fog was more of a mist, almost pure in the fresh morning air. I followed my nose until I found a street vendor offering steaming hot pies. I wolfed one down and it scalded my throat, but at least filled my stomach. I guiltily licked the thick gravy from my fingers and walked to the Oxford Circus station.

* * *

Baker Street was a residential street lined by tall brick houses, all of which were very square and reassuring. Different-patterned ivory and white lace curtains were the only indication that the houses weren't completely identical. A cafe and a chemist's were tucked discreetly into the mix on the right side. I glanced down at the slip of paper in my hand, but it was purely out of habit. I memorized all important information rather than rely on physical records. I was looking for 221, which should be on the left side.

The house itself was easy enough to locate. Stately gold script on the window above the door proclaimed the address, and plate next to the door confirmed this, with the added footnote "A and B." I looked up at the building, trying to glean any information I possibly could about its residents. The ground and first floors had the curtains thrown wide open to let in the light, and I could see pristine end tables topped with tasteful vases and sparse photographs. These were probably Mrs. Hudson's rooms. On the second and third floors, however, only half of the windows were uncovered. One was partially open, and the end of the lace curtain protruded outside along with a wisp of smoke. I took in a deep breath and recognized the musky scent of expensive pipe tobacco.

"Miss Russell?" I started; I had lingered too long and Mrs. Hudson had caught me staring. Before I could allow the blunder to register and make me even more clumsy than usual, I stepped forward, smiling brightly. This time it was genuine, for I was truly excited now to begin.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson! I do apologize, I was only steeling my courage."

The older woman waved me inside and my nose was assaulted by an incredibly improbable mixture of odors. Something that smelled like roast chicken was cooking in a room nearby, and the pipe smoke was also more noticeable here. Through it all, however, wove a not entirely pleasant scent that I could only identify as _chemistry_. It was sulfur and fire and a hint of gunpowder combined with a hundred other things. A bowl of roses next to the door only added to the problem.

My eyes immediately began to water as I held back a sneeze, but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to notice. She bustled through a door to our right and into her own small sitting room. "You won't have much to do in my rooms. I can do that well enough. It will be in the kitchen and upstairs." I lingered for a moment but only had time to notice her preference for a particular pearly blue color before I had to follow her into the kitchen.

The next thirty minutes or so were spent learning my way around Mrs. Hudson's immaculate kitchen and rooms. I learned where cleaning supplies were, as well as extra candles, and was given a list of the places I should do the shopping when that was also on my list of duties. Throughout the entire process, I tried desperately not to knock anything over with my protruding elbows. There was one instance where I went to push my glasses back up my nose and almost dislodged a painting from the wall, but I quickly recovered myself and righted the image.

After she had shown me all she could, Mrs. Hudson sighed almost apprehensively. "Very well then. It's time you met my lodgers." I followed her up the narrow staircase and listened with all of my attention. "Dr. Watson was a doctor in the army. His leg was injured in service and he was forced to return to London." Respect and fondness in her tones. "Mr. Holmes is… well, I'm sure he would prefer to explain himself." The dry humor and touch of exasperation here spoke of arrogance and, perhaps, other reasons why Mr. Holmes was best left to make his own impression. This man sounded more and more fascinating the more I heard of him.

The nondescript, worn black door at the top of the staircase stood ajar. I followed Mrs. Hudson through with some inexplicable trepidation. I rationalized it with the thought that the personalities of the lodgers would have a large impact on my mood in this position, but it truly was something more than that.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" A pleasant-looking man with a mustache closed his book and rose from his chair next from the fire. By the fact that he slightly favored his left leg, I deduced that this was Dr. Watson. He looked me up and down as well, a kind expression on his face. "This must be the new maid."

"Dr. Watson, this is Miss Russell." I curtsied in a way that I hoped didn't make me look like a clumsy imbecile and Watson nodded.

"Pleased to have you here, Miss Russell." He looked around the cluttered flat and so did I. Newspapers seemed to be the predominant problem, though I could see a kind of rudimentary system in the way they were laid out in piles on the furniture and floor. Tobacco spilled from a dilapidated slipper which hung from the mantlepiece. A few apparently random articles of clothing- including a clergyman's guise, unless I was much mistaken- were scattered over the other debris. The table was completely occupied by an overly-complex system of beakers and tubes and burners which were bubbling away with no apparent purpose that I could see. I wondered if it was just there to make some kind of point. "As I'm sure you can see, the help is needed."

I almost grimaced at the amount of work I would have to do but thought better of it. Even so, hours of polishing smoke stains from windows and walls and sorting through years of newspapers suddenly stretched indefinitely in my future. I settled for an internal sigh and an external bright smile. "I hope I can do satisfactorily, sir."

I had come to focus on the dark head which protruded from the other fireside chair. A haze of pipe smoke wreathed the oiled black hair; I had finally identified the source of that smell, at least.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asked with mild irritation in her voice, and, very slowly, the figure unfolded.

Holmes was very tall, though not quite unusually so. He was thin but broad-shouldered for his build, with wiry arms and legs clothed in well-made attire. This was crumpled, however, as though he had recently slept in it. It was his face which interested me, though: his strong, hooked nose, his dark, peering eyes, the broad forehead and expressive eyebrows and the thin lips between which was clasped a long, thin pipe. This face spoke of shrewd intelligence.

I looked from Mr. Holmes and his apparent cleverness but disheveled state to the newspapers and clothing, which I suddenly recognized as bits of disguises, and the realization hit me even before I noticed the card in the tray by the door: a Scotland Yard inspector by the name of Lestrade. "A detective," I exclaimed, thrilled by the thought.

"Indeed," Holmes said, apparently unimpressed by my deduction. "Welcome to Baker Street, Miss Russell." His voice was high and held the accent of that class of male who has had altogether too much education and is proud of the fact. His half-smile was vaguely mocking.

Holmes reached out as if to shake my hand, and it took me a moment to realized that that was indeed his intention. I smiled hesitantly but put my hand in his. His handshake was firm and almost brusque, his hands themselves calloused but long-fingered and cool.

When I dropped my hand back to my side, however, his gaze followed it downward and alighted on my left hand. At seeing something there, he gave a little cry of surprise and snatched it up for examination.

"What is it?" I asked, annoyed at this man's strange conduct. He didn't respond, but I eventually realized that he was examining the jagged scar where my thumb met my palm.

"Where did you acquire this?" he asked, turning my hand this way and that as though asking after some rare book which I had produced.

I hesitated, but gave in. "On a family trip to Sussex during my childhood. It was a pocket knife which inflicted the cut."

Holmes's head snapped up so that his dark, glittering eyes met mine. He watched my face for a minute, perhaps trying to determine whether I was telling the truth. Whatever he saw apparently answered his question because he smiled widely and tilted his head to the right. This revealed an almost-unnoticeable white scar on the left side of his jaw.

My eyes widened. "No. That's not possible."

Holmes straightened, his smile fading but mirth still dancing in his eyes. "Not impossible. Only highly improbable."

* * *

_I was barely tall enough to feel the sea breeze, but feel it I did. It threatened the security of my battered cap, beneath which were tucked my stubby blonde braids. The course Sussex grass reached to my waist in places._

"_Mary!" my mother called from far behind me. "Be careful!"_

_I ignored her with all the confidence of my three and a half years and stumbled ahead, hoping for a glimpse of the sea. When I tripped and landed full on my face, I was convinced for a moment that I had pitched off of the cliff. Much to my surprise, however, I raised my smudged face to see the figure of a boy._

_I knew that he was older than me, but couldn't have placed him between ten and eighteen. He was pale with sharp features and, when he spoke, I recognized the accent of my father's London friends._

"_Watch where you're going, little boy," he drawled disdainfully, and went back to observing the bumble bee curled in the palm of his hand._

"_Little boy!" I cried angrily, struggling to my feet. I tugged my cap from my head to reveal my straw-like plaits. Then I released my most barbed insult: I stuck out my tongue and simply stated "You're stupid!"_

_The boy glared at me coldly and unfolded himself from his crouch, his lanky form towering above me. His words were charged with ice. "Very well then, _little girl_." And he brushed the bee from his hand in preparation of leaving._

_I leapt up to capture it, suddenly distracted by the fuzzy, golden shape, and was rewarded by a sharp sting in the palm of my left hand. I fell back onto my bottom and burst into tears, terrified by the little black stinger still lodged in my flesh._

_The boy froze, his sharp eyes darting around in search of supervision, and apparently found none because he crouched back down to my level. "Take the stinger out," he said irritably, so I picked at my palm between sobs. But it was lodged under the skin at an awkward angle, so I looked around for some kind of tool._

_The boy was one step ahead of me: he handed me his pocket knife warning "Just use the tip." In my urgency however, I slashed sideways at my hand with the entire blade, removing the surrounding chunk of skin as well as the stinger._

_I wailed even louder as the boy snatched the knife from my hand. I watched the blood welling in my palm and was angry at the boy; in my mind, he was completely responsible. I searched around with my right hand, discovered a suitably jagged rock, and brought it up with all of my meager strength._

_The stone clipped his jaw, leaving a small but growing bead of scarlet on the underside of his chin, and he dropped the blade again in surprise._

"_Little girl," he growled, and the warning in his voice made me pause in my crying. But instead of striking me as I had feared he would, the boy simply extricated a white handkerchief from a pocket and tied it around my hand, tugging the corners until it was tight and secure. I hiccoughed softly as the pain began to subside._

"_Better?" the boy asked with surprising gentleness. I nodded, sniffling. "Good." And with that, he picked up his knife, stood up, and strode away, hands in his pockets, across the downs._

* * *

I saw that Holmes was shaking softly and realized that he was laughing silently.

"You handed me a knife when I was three years old!" I exploded, feeling a returning flicker of the pain and fright. "What in God's name did you expect to happen?"

"I don't know," he said, raising an eyebrow, "_little girl_."

My first impulse was to strike him and stop him from looking so smug, but it only took an instant for the coincidence of the situation to catch up with me. I moved to look at the scar again. I was quite tall, but only had to duck an inch or so to see the underside of his chin. It was clearly in the correct place.

Then I burst out laughing, thoroughly startling both Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching the whole exchange in confusion. Holmes grinned and laughed, too, after a moment.

That was the first time I witnessed Sherlock Holmes laugh, and, while it was far from the last, it never ceased to amaze me how this serious, thoughtful, often sharp man could suddenly break into a smile and shake with mirth. It was a sight which I would go out of my way to invoke, though not until much later in our friendship.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

I quickly settled into a comfortable routine. I would rise early and leave my aunt's flat as soon as possible, breaking my fast at a cafe or street cart. Then I would walk or take the Underground to Baker Street, where there were always duties for me no matter how early in the morning.

Many of my days were spent trying to clean 221B without incurring Holmes's wrath. The parts of the flat belonging to Dr. Watson- his room and all of the flat besides the sitting room, for all intents and purposes- were easily tidied and my efforts were appreciated. I was completely forbidden from entering Holmes's room after a disastrous incident in my first week which involved forgetting that zinc was combustible with air, so at least that hellhole was off of my mind.

That left the sitting room. Besides clearing away the remnants of meals, which tended to migrate around the room depending on Holmes's state of mind, I scrubbed and polished for all I was worth in an attempt to rid the flat of its smoky film. This was acceptable, but touching or tidying the tobacco slipper in any way was not. I was permitted to sort the newspapers into more organized piles, but not to stack them against the wall. Holmes had to snap at me a few times before I learned not to put away any books or albums which might be out on tables or strewn on the floor.

On an average day, I might take breakfast upstairs and lay the fire if it was cool enough to require it. Then, for a half an hour or so, I would assist Holmes however he required. This might be searching out names from his records or finding a newspaper from a specific date to cross-reference something in that morning's edition. Often it involved simply sitting in one of the eclectic chairs and allowing him to bounce thoughts off of me.

Through these exchanges, and no doubt hastened by our strange shared memory, we lapsed into a sort of strange friendship. Our barriers, so strong in each of us, fell away one by one. Eventually our prefixes followed them; he called me "Russell," and he was just "Holmes." I could tell that he was uneasy to have a young woman around for so much time, especially at first. Indeed, I was quite aware of his attitudes towards people of my sex, which might have been one reason that I strove to impress him on a regular basis, and why it was mostly against both of our wills that we did become friends.

This started as simple curiosity. I discovered that Holmes had written several short works on the various sciences of his art, and since none of the other members of the household seemed particularly eager to share stories of Holmes's adventures, I fell to these for my information. They were terribly interesting and opened to me and my young mind an entirely new world beneath the London I knew. Now, on my weekly journey to Sidney's to replenish my reading material, I would pretend that my male dress was a disguise and that I was trailing someone through the grimy streets. I would track makes of perfume and brands of tobacco ash, and the people they represented, for hours rather than return to my aunt's residence on my free evenings.

The more I saw into his world, which was to me so strange and wondrous, the more I wanted to know the man himself. He was brilliant, I knew, and his hauntingly beautiful violin playing certainly belied a dark tone beneath the unconcerned exterior.

I also took special care to engage with Holmes because of something which I discovered in a drawer one morning. Holmes had taken his coffee over to that day's particularly malodorous chemistry experiment and I was attempting to make some order out of the desk beneath the window. It was filled with unopened correspondence and assorted receipts and notes. I slid open the drawer to fill it with piles of envelopes.

"Russell!" the sharp voice snapped behind me. "Close that at once!"

But before I did, I had glimpsed the syringe and the bottle of clear liquid, which I held up accusingly. Any other maid, I later realized, would have shut the drawer and discreetly gone about her business, but I was too full of my own young passion and opinions to let the incident go.

"What is this?" I asked, appalled. "Heroin? Cocaine?" Holmes's lip twitched when I mentioned the latter. He had frozen, cup in hand, bent over a burner. I couldn't quite read his expression, but my first instinct was disgust.

_At me? _I thought. _At the drugs?_ It hit me then that Holmes had not had any serious cases since I had been working at 221. Cocaine was a stimulant, I knew, and I stumbled upon the answer without having to think too much about the problem. _He needs them when he doesn't have a case._

I felt sheepish, somehow, even though this reason was far from valid. Fortunately, the moment was saved when Holmes's dressing gown began to smoke, and as he jumped up to pat it out I slipped the bottle back into the drawer. I could see that the slide on the syringe was well-worn and that the bars along the glass, used for precise measurements, were faded. That more than anything made me deeply sad, but I slipped downstairs without another word. Nothing more was said of the incident.

So I did my best to capture Holmes's attention every morning before I began attacking his environment.

My afternoons were spent cooking with Mrs. Hudson or running errands. Dr. Watson eventually realized how reluctant I was to return home and would occasionally add his own requests- to check with a recovering patient, for example, or to report the current price of laudanum- to my list. Thus most of my day was filled and I could return home to sup briefly with my aunt before retiring to my room.

* * *

"You're sure you don't want to stay, Miss Russell?" Sidney asked, peering out at the rain which was pouring in sheets.

"I would love to," I said ruefully, thinking of just how wet I would be by the time I reached Baker Street. It was already cold for October and my limited male wardrobe would do nothing to keep me warm. "But I have to get to work."

"All right then Miss," Sidney said doubtfully, "but I'd best wrap these in paper for you." He pushed the books into a neat pile and I watched his dexterous hands wrap them in plain brown paper. "Are you still working at that house is Baker Street, Miss Russell?"

"Yes, it's a fascinating place to work." I smiled. "The landlady is so kind, and one of her lodgers is a famous detective." For famous Holmes was, I had come to realize, despite the fact that I myself had not heard of him.

Sidney started. "Not a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, surely?"

"Why yes!" I said, startled. "Do you know him?"

The old man chuckled. "He's solved enough murders in London. Say though," he asked suddenly, "How old is the man?"

I almost started, so little had the subject occurred to me in the past. "Less than thirty, I believe," I mused, calling Holmes's face to mind. The hair at his temples were untouched by grey and the lines across his forehead, I thought, were more from deep thought than age. "Why?"

Sidney winked. "I just want to make sure that a pretty young lady like you doesn't feel uncomfortable. He's quite the dashing young man, isn't he?"

I very nearly blushed at what he was implying, but managed to reign in my spluttering to make a coherent answer. "I'm sure I don't know what you could mean by that, Sidney." I almost mentioned how Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson were always there, besides, but suddenly realized that that was not always the case. There were plenty of times that I had been unchaperoned in the flat with Holmes, though it hadn't seemed like any kind of event at the time. Now that I was looking at it through Sidney's mischievous eyes, however…

I shook my head as if to physically clear it of such ridiculous thoughts. Holmes and I were cautious friends who each appreciated the other for their intellect but who often resented the other's mood or even presence. The idea of anything untoward taking place was, frankly, laughable. "Good morning, Sidney."

In just a few moments I had my bundle of books, wrapped and tied with string, and had ducked back out into the storm. It was Sunday morning and Mrs. Hudson wasn't expecting me until noon, so I still had time to get to 221. The closet which Mrs. Hudson had kindly emptied for my use held a clean, dry change of clothes, a brush, and a small mirror, so I would at least be presentable.

This room had come into my use the second time I had elected to stay at Baker Street until after midnight to assist Holmes with particularly delicate experiments; I had run home to tell my aunt that I would be staying the night and had simply slept in the closet, wrapped in a spare blanket. Mrs. Hudson then realized the convenience of my being able to stay into evenings and, occasionally, through the night, and so had allowed me to use the room whenever I wished. I even had a small pallet of old pillows and threadbare blankets so that I might recline with a book and a candle if I was simply keeping watch over the flat for a span of hours when it might otherwise be empty.

By the time I unlocked the door of 221 and stepped into the hallway, my cap was as heavy and sodden as if it had been a sponge. A steady stream of water ran off the end of my nose and my shoes, split and ancient as they were, squelched with every step. I wrung out my hat and coat as well as I could and removed my shoes to carry them upstairs, moving as quietly as possible.

I was creeping because Holmes had been in a particularly depressive mood lately and was taken to staying up all night and sleeping odd hours during the day. Though he would never make any sign that I had woken him, he was gaunt and pale enough without me robbing him of any more sleep.

The summer had been a dry spell for Holmes in terms of cases. He had had one minor blackmailing incident and two disappearances, both of which had been the result of mistresses in adjacent towns. He was incurably, miserably bored. The only ray of light was that, on the occasions when he shoved up his shirt sleeves in pursuit of a haphazard chemistry experiment or frenzied dance on his violin, his arms were free from the peppering of needle marks which I knew would accompany his return to the cocaine.

I had no explanation for his continued abstinence. Perhaps my confronting him had had some effect, though I doubted it; Dr. Watson, as a medical man and Holmes's close friend, would have had much more influence, and it was inconceivable that Holmes could maintain a drug habit without Watson's knowledge.

Because of his recent listlessness, I was amazed when the delicate strains of a waltz met me halfway up the stairway. This was not the manic music of the bursts of energy which invariably led to the violin being tossed away and its master throwing himself back into his chair. This was relaxed but not melancholy, the kind of music to which Holmes listened when he went out to see live orchestral performances.

I smiled, dripping as I was, and left my wet things on the first floor landing outside the entrance to my closet before nimbly climbing the second flight of stairs. The door to 221B was ajar, which was also a good sign. The warmth from the nearby fire was intoxicating even without the sweet melody, and I allowed myself to sit propped against the door frame and listen.

My toes warmed slowly in my thick, too-big socks as they gently conducted Holmes's playing. I had never heard him play like this before. His outline in the dark room was stark against the blazing fire as he stepped back and forth, head inclined and eyes closed as he focused entirely on coaxing the tune from the instrument perched in his long fingers. After a moment, I realized that he was waltzing, alone in the room, to the music.

"You are permitted to enter, you know," Holmes murmured without opening his eyes, and I started. How long had he known that I was there, sitting and smiling sleepily?

At any other time I would have stood and excused myself to go change. But that day the warmth of the fire drew me forward, hair loose and still clumpy and dripping, so I stepped into the room. As though in a trance, I stepped forward towards a comfortable-looking chair directly in front of the fireplace.

For a mere flicker of a second, it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do would be to join into the waltz, to step smoothly in time with Holmes and his beautiful playing, but I pushed away this thought and settled into the chair. The music continued.

_It's nearly noon,_ I thought, _and no time to sleep. I ought to go change._ But I had been up late reading the night before and the cold had taken its toll. Before the song ended I had slipped into a light, peaceful slumber.

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Please review! It means a lot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the lovely response, everyone! I'm having a lot of fun writing this, and I've worked out most of what I want to happen in terms of plot 'n' stuff. Just one more note about differences from Laurie King's series: I admit to a shameful ignorance when it comes to theology and religion. I loved that Russell's heritage and theological studies were a big part of the books but I simply don't have the knowledge to make it work here. Rather than having awkward bits inserted here and there, I'm just kind of going to leave all of that out. It makes me really sad to do so, but again, I don't have time to extensively research every aspect of every story.

Anyhoo, please keep reviewing, etc. because it lets me know what you guys like! Thanks so much for reading.

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**Chapter IV**

I awoke to the sound of screams, as I had so often that past year. The screams of my family as the automobile skidded over the side of that cliff and hung, suspended, over the sparkling blue waters before plunging down to their deaths. Usually these screams were accompanied by the white face of my younger brother, watching me as I flew from the vehicle and bounced almost comically along the road.

This time the image had faded by the time I opened my eyes and the screams were only my own.

The cry trailed off as I looked around and tried to orient myself. The fire was dying down to cinders and the windows were open now to reveal a clear, cold autumn night. How long had I been asleep? Someone had taken the time to hang my wet clothing in front of the fire- the one in 221B and not Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, I noted, which was interesting- and toss a blanket over my long frame.

A door banged downstairs and thunderous footsteps raced towards me as I took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to bring myself out of the nightmare. After mere seconds Holmes's thin frame rocketed into the room and he slid to a stop a few feet in front of me.

"Russell?" He was dressed up for an evening out but his scarf was trailing behind him and his hat lay discarded just outside the door. He had a handgun pulled halfway out of his coat pocket and his expression of sharp, focused anxiety might have appeared almost comical if worn by a less imposing man. When I didn't move or respond, he glanced about and made sure that there was no physical threat before placing the pistol on the table and striding over to stand in front of the fire. He remained there, hands in pockets, staring into the dancing flames.

"Holmes," I began shakily, "I am so sorry."

"Don't be," he muttered, almost distractedly.

"I fell asleep in your flat," I continued. "And I had a ridiculous nightmare. I must have given you quite a fright." I stretched out my legs and remembered that I was still in my male clothing. My hair had dried in long snarls and bounced against my cheeks, which were inexplicably wet. "I should go," I said when I finally saw the clock above the mantle. It was nearly seven. "My aunt will be expecting me."

Holmes finally turned to look at me as I stood and made a clumsy attempt to fold the blanket. He snatched it from me impatiently and tossed it into another chair. "You were sleeping so peacefully neither Mrs. Hudson nor I felt that it was necessary to wake you. I have already been by your flat to inform your aunt that you will be late or may even spend the night because Mrs. Hudson requires your continued assistance." He paused and I took the opportunity to brush a stray tear from beneath my glasses. I was thankful that I could stay at Baker Street for the rest of the night; that had been the longest I had slept in a long time without being awakened by the nightmares. After a moment, Holmes cleared his throat and continued. "You do plenty around the flat, and you should know that you are welcome here… as more than a maid."

I blinked, confused. Was this some admission of friendship, or had Mrs. Hudson simply decided that I was allowed to take refuge here from my aunt?

Rather abruptly, as though uncomfortable with the conversation, Holmes spun around to select a pipe from his ever-growing collection and fill it with tobacco. By the time he had turned back to me I had composed my features into a grateful smile. "Thank you, Holmes. I appreciate your kindness."

He barked out a short laugh. "Don't take me for some kind of philanthropist. With Watson in and out the past few months, you seem to be the only one with half a brain around here."

I accepted the backhanded comment with as much grace as I could muster. This also reminded me of what had brought me into the rooms in the first place. "Holmes?"

"Yes Russell?" By now Holmes had settled into his habitual chair with his pipe and was attempting to find his place in a severely dog-eared book.

"Did that tune earlier mean that you've found a case?"

Holmes's lips quirked into a smile around the stem of his pipe. "Indeed, Russell. For now, however, I think that you should speak with Mrs. Hudson about what can be done this evening to compensate for your extended nap."

I almost pestered him for details, annoyed, and had already placed my hands on my hips in preparation when I saw what he was doing.

I had apparently guessed correctly. "This is the kind of case which might ordinarily benefit from Watson's presence. With him on the Continent this month, I thought that you might perhaps assist me, assuming that Mrs. Hudson will allow it."

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

"Because, my dear Russell," Holmes explained as he exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke, "you are bright and quick-witted and seem to have taken a rather flattering obsession to my works on detection." I blushed, but in the fire-lit room it was hopefully too indistinct to see. "You may have some promise in the area."

I was struck dumb by this last announcement. Sherlock Holmes thought that I might have promise as a detective?

After I had stood silently for a suitably awkward amount of time, Holmes nudged me along with a gentle "Off you go then, Russell," and I came to myself and left the room as quickly as I could. On my way out, I stopped to collect Holmes's forgotten hat from the floor and place it on a table.

I glanced back once to see the thin face relaxed at last and lit by the glow of his pipe and the dying fire, as his long, thin fingers turned the pages of his book with barely a whisper.

* * *

That night I slept more soundly than I had in months, though I was only curled on the floor of my closet in my nest of blankets. After rising and tugging a brush through my knotted hair, I donned my reasonably-presentable dress and went to help Mrs. Hudson prepare breakfast. Despite my excitement, it wasn't until I was armed with a laden tray that I allowed myself to dash up the stairs to 221B.

Holmes was perched on the arm of his chair, fingers tapping restlessly and already dressed. The instant I walked through the door, however, he sprang to his feet, an expression of intense focus on his face. I had barely set breakfast on the table before he had shoved an open letter into my hands.

"Read."

It was written on well-made but not extravagant paper in a woman's hand. The handwriting was shaky and nervous, though the strokes were still bold.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_I am sorry to trouble you with a matter which must be trivial to your great mind, but something has occurred which is preying on me greatly._

_My husband is a Mr. Henry Jennings of a large Sussex estate._

I raised an eyebrow. "Sussex?"

Holmes waved a hand. "Irrelevant."

_I recently held a large party in honor of his fortieth birthday, and he and a few of his friends rode out over the downs. My husband fell from his horse and broke two bones in his ankle and one in his leg. In the two weeks since, he has been confined to our house and has great difficulty in walking. The doctor provided him with a sturdy aluminum crutch, but he refuses to learn how to use the thing properly. His movement is severely limited._

_Yesterday morning, on Friday the eighth of October, I went upstairs to our room. I had had some difficulty in sleeping, Mr. Holmes, and had been up all night drinking tea and reading in the library. I heard nothing unusual during the night._

_However, upon entering our chamber, I discovered that my husband was missing. The bed looked as though it had been slept in, but he was no where to be found. I engaged the help of our staff and, eventually, the police, in my search. They found no signs of a forced entry or a struggle, but Henry was gone._

_We searched over the downs in three miles in each direction and found no sign of him. None of the servants saw anything, either, and I am at my wit's end._

_You see, Mr. Holmes, the aluminum crutch was still leaning against the night table where Henry had left it the night before. Without it, he could hardly have gone far on his broken leg, unless he was forcibly taken. But as I said before, there is no sign of a struggle._

_If you could find the time to come visit our home in Sussex, it would ease my mind greatly to know that such a prominent detective was searching for Henry._

_Thank you for your time._

_Yours,_

_Jessica Jennings_

"Well," I began as Holmes clattered about at the table, "several possibilities occur to me."

Holmes held up a finger but I had to wait until he had swallowed his coffee before he spoke. After a second, he gulped the last of the hot drink and very nearly threw the cup down on the table in his excitement. "My dear Russell, it does not do to make any kind of assumption about such a case. We had better wait until we have interviewed Mrs. Jennings and her staff and searched the house."

_We._ I contained a smile.

"Stop smirking, Russell." Holmes waved a piece of toast severely. "This is only until Watson returns home. Besides, you might be completely useless."

_We'll just see about that_, I almost said, but obediently straightened my face.

"Now go convince your aunt to allow you to come. I've spoken to Mrs. Hudson." Holmes pulled out his watch and glanced down at it. "We shall catch the train in precisely ninety minutes."

I very nearly skipped out of the flat and back to my aunt's residence. She took almost no convincing, as I had expected, and I was back at 221 in slightly more suitable clothing, complete with hat and gloves, in plenty of time to get a cab to the station.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Anyone who can figure out why Jennings is missing gets 10,000 bonus points. All the information is there!

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**Chapter V**

The Jennings's home was indeed impressive. It was nestled against a gently sloping hill and the midday light made clearly visible the rows of large windows. Holmes had elected to walk from the train station so as to observe any marks in the road.

"But Holmes," I asked as he trekked slowly along the well-beaten path, "surely he or his kidnappers would not have taken the road?"

He twisted his long frame around to give me a sour expression. "Perhaps then, Russell, you should lead the efforts."

I recognized the challenge and drew myself up. "Very well." I made my way to the edge of the road, where the grass was still short and easy to navigate. "Just here," I said, pointing to the half meter or so on either side, "any tracks would be much more difficult to recognize, but one could still follow the well-known path." A minute or so of searching proved me correct. "Here."

Holmes joined me and examined the indistinct marking. It appeared to be a human left foot, probably male judging by the length and depth and the shape of the heel, but with odd rectangular protrusions on either side. "Curious," Holmes muttered. Farther along was the print of a right foot, this one without the unusual shape. Both faced away from the house and were on the left side relative to their direction.

"We had better go and interview Mrs. Jennings now," Holmes said pointedly after I had spent nearly a quarter of an hour scouring the area for additional markings.

The door of the large house was opened by a uniformed maid, who seemed to be accustomed to showing strangers into the library. There we waited for less than two minutes before Mrs. Jennings appeared.

She was a woman of average height, so I very nearly towered over her. Her honey-colored hair was coiled loosely on top of her head and several strands had escaped to frame her face and brush against her neck. Her dress was well-cut but simple, a lovely rich brown with cream lace down the front. He face was fresh and pretty, I thought, with delicate laugh lines barely visible at the corners of her eyes and a sort of honest openness about the mouth, but she could hardly be called beautiful.

"Mr. Holmes," she gushed, stepping forward and offering her hand. My companion took it and bowed with a slightly amused expression. "I am so very happy that you could come. I just don't know what to do, you see, since Henry disappeared on Friday. The police have been out but they could find nothing-"

"Yes, so you said in your letter," Holmes interrupted cooly. "Tell me, is this where you sat reading that night?"

Mrs. Jennings barely blinked at the jump in the conversation as she stepped over to the chair Holmes had indicated. "Yes. I had a cup of tea here, on this table."

"Perhaps you would be kind enough to take us through everything which happened that evening. This is Miss Russell, she will be…" Holmes glanced at me. "Assisting me."

Mrs. Jennings nodded and sank into another chair. For a moment I thought that she might cry, but she took a few deep breaths and composed herself enough to begin her story. Holmes remained standing, but I sat to reduce the atmosphere of interrogation.

"Thursday night we had dinner as usual. It took Henry some time to get downstairs with his leg, and he was in a poor mood."

"And what was served for dinner?"

"We had roast beef, it's Henry's favorite and I don't like to make him wait for Sundays." Mrs. Jennings cleared her throat. "Anyway, we finished eating at perhaps eight, and we both went to the library to read. Neither of us left the library until ten thirty, when I helped Henry upstairs and we both went to bed at eleven. It took him extra time to change and get ready, of course." She paused and I realized that I was leaning forward as though that might help me strain meaningful information from her words. "I have always been a light sleeper, Mr. Holmes, and since Henry broke his leg I have sometimes had to be up at odd hours to help him. For this reason I have been having difficulty sleeping through the night. That night, at perhaps twelve thirty, I realized that I was still completely awake, so I rose and went back down to continue my reading."

"Did Mr. Jennings wake up as you rose?" I asked eagerly, speaking for the first time.

Mrs. Jennings favored me with a kind smile and I wondered who she thought I was. "Yes, dear, he rolled over as I left and asked where I was going. I told him that I intended to pass the night reading and not to expect me to return to bed."

"Was this a frequent occurrence? Your passing the night in the library, I mean," Holmes interjected.

She thought for a moment. "It had happened three, perhaps four times since Henry was injured."

Holmes nodded and made an impatient gesture. "Please continue."

"I had our housekeeper, Mrs. Fields, make a pot of tea and leave it in here with me. I read through the night, probably dozing a little as the night wore on. At eight, when Henry usually prefers to wake up, I set my book aside and went back upstairs to our bedroom to help him dress." Mrs. Jennings paused again as the relived some of the distress she had experienced. "He was gone. The room looked just the same as it had when I left it, including his aluminum crutch leaning against the bedside table."

"And you heard nothing during the night?"

"No."

"Very well." Holmes turned, taking in the library one more time, and then asked for us to be shown upstairs. Mrs. Jennings took us herself.

"Which rooms are directly above the library?" I asked as we mounted the stairs. If the bedroom or hallway had a wooden floor and was above where Mrs. Jennings had passed the night, then she might have heard footsteps, especially if Mr. Jennings had been using a crutch. This would imply that he left of his own accord, either with someone who brought him another crutch or with a crutch which he had kept unbeknownst to his wife.

"The hallway onto which our bedroom opens stretches across it," Mrs. Jennings explained. "There is a linen closet and a spare bedroom which are also directly above it."

"And you heard no footsteps? If there had been noises above, you would have heard them?" Holmes looked at me approvingly and I beamed internally.

Mrs. Jennings nodded. "As I said, I only dozed during the night. Someone would have had to have been intentionally silent in order for me not to have heard them."

No crutch then. Holmes leaned towards me. "Suggestive, is it not?"

"Indeed," I mused.

A closer examination of the chambers which Henry and Jessica Jennings shared revealed only what we already knew. There was no sign of a struggle and the window was latched securely from the inside. Upon looking surreptitiously around the room, I discovered a picture of the couple. Mrs. Jennings was smiling sunnily, though she must have had to maintain it for much too long to be comfortable, and Mr. Jennings had a sort of stiff dignity. I noted his features for future use.

Mrs. Jennings's night stand held the picture, a few novels, and some letters which I presumed to be from her husband. The other small table held only a single book and a stumpy candle.

In response to our inquiries about their staff, Mrs. Jennings told us that only Mr. and Mrs. Fields had been at the house that night.

"May we interview them?" Holmes asked, though it was really more of an order.

"Of course."

Mrs. Fields quite reminded me of Mrs. Hudson with her air of benevolent disapproval, and Mr. Fields was tall and rail-thin and had an impressive white moustache. Their interview was as routine as possible. Their stories matched that of Mrs. Jennings perfectly and neither of them had seen or heard anything unusual.

Because of our lack of information, I was surprised to hear Holmes humming cheerfully as we began our walk back to the station.

"What is it, Holmes? What am I missing?"

Holmes looked sideways at me, amused. "My dear Russell, the entire case is solved."

I froze in astonishment. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Come," he said, not answering my question in any way. "We need only check at the station to confirm where Jennings is."

As Holmes had predicted, the second railway employee we spoke to remembered selling a man with Henry's description a ticket to Paddington Station.

"Funny bloke," the man reflected. "Bit of a limp in his left leg, looked antsy when I mentioned it."

"What does it mean, Holmes? Please tell me!" I very nearly begged as we finally settled ourselves into our cramped little carriage.

"Use that mind of yours and don't make me regret bringing you along, Russell." I sank back, stung. "You have all the information available. See if you can figure it out."

And with that, Holmes leaned back, settled his hat over his eyes, and slept easily all the way back to London while I tore apart every aspect of the day's events and tried to catch up with him.

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_Please review, it means a lot to the writer!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

I spent the entirety of the train ride back to London considering the problem of the aluminum crutch. It was clearly the turning point of the case; if Jennings had walked out of the house, then he would have needed some other kind of support. However, Mrs. Jennings would have heard the thumping of a crutch in the hallway upstairs. If Jennings had been removed forcibly, there would have been some signs of a break in. I concluded that he could either have been carried by accomplices or crawled, but the man at the station had said that he was standing and walking with nothing more than a limp.

The strange footprints were recalled to mind, and it struck me that Jennings might have some sort of metal brace on his leg which would allow him to walk quietly and without assistance but leave him with a slight limp. I took this as my working theory, therefore, and expanded upon it.

Mrs. Jennings had regularly spent the night downstairs, so Jennings might predict that this would be the case again soon. After she left he must have produced the brace from its hiding place- possibly secured beneath the bed within easy reach- and put it on himself. After dressing, he would have crept down the hallway, downstairs, and out through one of the plentiful doors. He left those odd footprints along the side of the road in a clumsy attempt to conceal them and made his way to the train station, where he purchased a ticket to Paddington.

I looked up excitedly to see that Holmes had opened his eyes and was watching me with interest. "I see that you have reached the same conclusion as I have. His motive for visiting London was, of course, debts," he finished just as I supplied "A mistress."

Holmes quirked an eyebrow. "The wife made a point of mentioning how large the estate was in her letter, so she is clearly proud of it, yet they only employ two servants. After she spent a large sum on the party for her husband, he was likely too ashamed to face her with their money troubles."

I was appalled by the gaps in Holmes's logic until I saw the challenging spark in his eye. I snorted. "He has a mistress in London, Holmes, and you know it. A wife who doesn't make her husband wait until Sunday for his roast beef is a wife trying to add affection where there is none. Mrs. Jennings is kind but aging and rather plain, and her husband has no pictures on his bedside table. It's quite bare, in fact, as though he prefers to spend his time somewhere else. And besides," I added haughtily, "why on Earth would he go to London to escape his debts?"

I finished my tirade and sat triumphantly for a moment until Holmes burst into delighted laughter. It took him a good minute to calm down enough to speak, at which point he wiped his eyes and said "Oh, Russell, you forgot all about the extravagant birthday party!" This sent him into fresh gales of laughter for some reason, and he was still chuckling as we disembarked at the bustling station.

"All right, very well, her subconscious suspected what her conscious mind could not comprehend. But what do we do now?" I asked, thoroughly annoyed.

Holmes hailed a cab, his usual calm self once more. "We return to Baker Street for supper, I believe, and then you go home to your aunt."

"But Holmes," I protested, "something must be done to find the man."

"Lestrade has had his name and description since I first recieved the letter."

I almost fell backwards in surprise, the implications of this having hit me just as I was stepping into the cab. Holmes put a hand on my back to steady me then followed me in. "You mean you knew that he was in London all along? How?" I paused, struck dumb with anger. "You knew and you were just testing me!"

Holmes settled himself back into his corner of the vehicle, eyelids drooping as though he were about to sleep again, and muttered something which was lost under the rattle of our movement.

"What?" I snapped irritably.

"You passed." He opened his eyes briefly to address me. "Shockingly."

"Flattery will get you no where," I said dryly, which earned me another chuckle. This one was not at my expense, however, so I didn't mind.

By the time we arrived back at 221, it was raining again. The October cold, which had been less pronounced in the South, was back in full force with the dreary weather. We leapt from the hansom, which had stopped at the end of the street because of the deep and vaguely threatening puddles, and I dashed to the door, unlocking and opening it while Holmes paid the cabbie. We both sprang inside and nearly slammed the door behind us.

"Don't drip on the carpet!" Mrs. Hudson immediately bustled into the hallway, hands fluttering, and I made to take off my coat before realizing that I was wearing a dress for once. I looked helplessly at her when I realized that I had no more clean sets of clothing stashed away in my closet. "Well, Miss Russell, go change and help me with dinner!"

I pulled my now-limp hat from my sopping hair and my drenched gloves from my fingers, wrung out my skirt as well as I could, and cleared my throat before explaining. "I'm afraid I have no other clothes, Mrs. Hudson."

She threw her hands up in the air exasperatedly. "I knew that this would happen as soon as you started helping with the cases. I hired you as a maid, and that's what I told him and Dr. Watson, but of course you don't have time for that, and you, sir," she stabbed a finger at Holmes, who froze in his attempt to steal past and up the stairs, "don't think that I'll still manage to have supper ready on time with her running back to her aunt's to change, and just remember that it's your own fault!"

Holmes managed to wrench his startled face into a patronizing smile, but not before I saw just how much control this mildly terrifying woman had over him. "All right Mrs. Hudson. Just bring it up when it's ready." And with that he turned to escape upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head disbelievingly. "The nerve!" Then she turned to me, and suddenly she was smiling confidentially. "Did you enjoy yourself, dear?"

I blinked, startled by her change in tone. "Er, yes, I think I may have passed some kind of test."

She only nodded. "Well, you'd best go and change then, and come back." She made to go back into the kitchen but stuck her head around the corner just as I was steeling myself to go back out into the downpour. "Perhaps you had better talk to your aunt about staying here during the week, if you're going to be going off on mad adventures. At least then you'll be available to help any of us around here. And you can keep a few changes of clothes in that closet. And I may put a proper mattress in there."

I beamed at the thought of spending even more time at 221 and, by extension, less time with my aunt. "That would be wonderful, Mrs. Hudson! I'll speak to her now and bring over a bag if she agrees."

She did, of course, and after eating with Mrs. Hudson and Holmes, who decided to join us downstairs for some reason known only to him, I spent the evening drying in front of the fire and watching Holmes conduct a chemistry experiment. He explained every step of it to me and even recommended a book which might increase my knowledge on related subjects, and I couldn't help but feel that some sort of strange apprenticeship had begun.

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_Thanks to TemporarilyAbaft for being so enthusiastic about this story! And I promise a longer chapter next time (which will cover Russell's 18th birthday! Ooh la-la!)._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

"And your gentleman friend will be there, of course?" Veronica Beaconsfield asked for the fifth time as we made the cold walk from the station to 221.

"I wish you would stop calling him that, Ronnie," I said irritatedly. The ridiculous dress which my friend had chosen for me, flattering as it may have been, was completely impractical for my customary long strides. "But yes, Mr. Holmes will be there."

It was the evening of my eighteenth birthday. The last week had been spent celebrating Christmas and the New Year with Ronnie and her family, it being my first chance to spend much time with her since I had made her acquaintance the previous summer on a London case. We had shopped and gossipped and been real, proper young ladies, and I was more than ready to reenter the familiar world of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and the eclectic sitting room of 221B.

On our last shopping expedition, Ronnie had come with me to the fitting of the new wardrobe I had purchased a week in advance. I had been forwarded a small sum of money from my parents' fortune for the occasion of my birthday, and I had spent most of it on the new clothes. Most were as practical as I could get away with, all broad, maneuverable skirts, high collars, and comfortable waists. The confection currently impeding my stride, however, was the epitome of grace.

It was purple velvet which draped just so to give the impression of hips where there were really only rail-thin legs, then swept the ground with an almost confidential whisper. My waist, at least, was of a fashionable size, and my corset did the rest of the shaping and padding. The collar was still high, as was practical for the January weather and to hide the scars of the accident which had killed my family. Cascading down the front was a strip of black and white lace-like pattern, which widened and shrank to give the impression of a fuller figure.

Over this glorious monstrosity was a creamy white coat, which Ronnie insisted clashed but which I loved because it reminded me of the snow and the heavy sky. My hands were tucked securely into a white muff but the tips of my ears and my nose were bright pink with the cold.

"Well, I hope that he is there, and that you haven't been leading me on this whole time," Ronnie said playfully. "This Mr. Holmes sounds rather too good to be true!"

I rolled my eyes. "Here we are, Ronnie, so please try not to embarrass me."

She winked. "I would hate to ruin your chances with your gentleman friend!" I gritted my teeth, already regretting mixing these two worlds, and knocked firmly on the door.

Mrs. Hudson opened it and smiled warmly, pulling me into a hug. "Welcome back, Miss Russell!"

The last year, I had not been officially working at Baker Street. The closet was still open for my use, I still had a key, and I still regularly helped to prepare meals, but I was also engaged with my tutelage. Besides that, my own research into various matters and my continued apprenticeship with Holmes had made any job with regular hours difficult to manage. It had been most of a month since I had been at 221 for more than a brief visit.

For this reason as much as my affection for the lady, I returned her embrace enthusiastically. When I pulled away, I gestured to my friend rather halfheartedly. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Lady Veronica Beaconsfield. Ronnie, Mrs. Hudson."

Ronnie held out a hand to shake, which Mrs. Hudson took cautiously. "Splendid to meet you at last, Ma'am! I've heard so many wonderful things about you," she gushed.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson delicately when she finally extricated herself. "Quite."

We were led upstairs, as the party was to take place in 221B. I grinned as we approached; lively violin music spilled from the warmly-lit doorway, and I could hear Watson laughing. I was not disappointed when the room came into view, for colorful streamers were tossed haphazardly about the place and candles and lamps sat on every surface, some in colored glass vases to throw rainbow sparks across the walls.

Holmes had his back to me, facing the fire and playing with all his attention as he had that night over two years ago. Watson stood, glass in hand, and nearly yelled "Welcome, Mary! Many happy returns!" as I crossed the threshold.

I laughed, delighted with the entire scene. "Thank you, Uncle John!" This man who was just over ten years my senior was the closest thing that I had to a father, and his kindly expression was always a welcome sight.

I could feel Ronnie tugging the coat from my shoulders so I let it slide loose and placed my muff on the table by the door. Suddenly I felt self-conscious in my strange, fashionable dress, so I took the only option available to me and patted my hair in a way that I hoped hid my face. Then, when I felt ready to face the room again, I pushed my spectacles back up my nose and looked up.

This was just in time to see Holmes turn around, his bow mid-stroke, and catch sight of me. His eyes widened and the chord ended in a startled wail as his arm froze. I looked down at myself, half expecting to see some gruesome creature sprouting from my chest to illicit that reaction, and saw only my body. The body of a woman, I suddenly realized. Tall and gangly, yes, but a woman nonetheless, and one that might even appear beautiful when softened by the candlelight.

I grinned and curtseyed, suddenly confident. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

For a few seconds, I feared that Holmes might actually faint. Indeed, he went so pale and leaned so far backwards that I had taken a step forward when he righted himself, took a steadying step, and composed his features.

"Good evening, Miss Russell," he responded formally. He looked at Ronnie, who looked as though she was trying to contain a squeal of delight. "And who might this be?"

"Ronnie, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Lady Veronica Beaconsfield."

Holmes bowed politely and Ronnie inclined her head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes! Mary was effusive in her praise."

I glared at my friend and Holmes looked amused. "Is that so? Well, I fear that she may have exaggerated."

A silence fell which dragged on until it became awkward. Holmes was clearly trying not to laugh at my embarrassment. After several seconds, I clapped my hands. "Is that sherry, Uncle John? It's rather cold out, I think I could do with a glass."

The conversation ground into motion and the rest of the evening passed relatively uneventfully. Ronnie found that she got along rather well with Watson, interested in nursing as she was. The five of us ate together, all crowded around the little table in 221B. Holmes especially seemed to be in his element and made a special effort to keep everyone's glass full and the anecdotes flowing just as freely.

When it came time for gifts, my friends bustled me over to a chair and all stood around me, watching excitedly as I undid the frivolous bows and paper. Mrs. Hudson gave me a lovely hatpin with a small, sparkling sapphire for decoration, which I could tell Ronnie coveted. I thanked her profusely but knew in my heart that I had no use for anything so beautiful.

As a joke, Ronnie "completed my wardrobe," as she happily announced, with a new set of male clothing. It was suitably baggy and misshapen to pass for old and dilapidated on the streets, but had no telltale holes and worn patches. It would do much more to keep me warm than my old set and looked as though it might actually fit me. The entire ensemble was complete with a worn but sturdy pair of boots that looked as though they might be passed on from a gardener. I hugged her and laughed and assured her that I would throw out my old things.

Watson, rather red-faced and embarrassed, provided a warm shawl. "I know you probably have nicer things," he said hurriedly, "but nothing will keep you warmer."

Holmes's gift came last. He handed me a small box wrapped only in white paper, and his hand lingered on it briefly as though he disliked to part with it. Carefully, almost painfully slowly, I unwrapped the object and slid open the lid.

Inside was a round silver locket with delicate vine and bird patterns engraved on the cover. It lay heavy in my hand and I could tell immediately that it was precious.

"It belonged to my mother," Holmes explained quietly. Then he cleared his throat and added, "Press the catch."

I ducked my head and examined the locket to hide the tears in my eyes. Holmes clearly valued this possession greatly, and to entrust it to me was a show of friendship greater than anything I had expected. Every time I thought that I knew the man, thought that I could define the odd relationship which was like a razor-sharp thread of glass between us, he surprised me.

I pressed the catch as instructed and the locket flew open to reveal the face of a delicate watch. The hands were shaped like the spades on a deck of playing cards, so slim and mirrored that they were almost invisible. Stately roman numerals edged the face and a gentle ticking, so warm and soft that it reminded me of a bird's heartbeat, thrummed against my hand.

My eyes met his and I knew that they were visibly brimming with tears. "Holmes. I don't know what to say." I looked at the watch again, searching for a word to describe such mechanical grace. "It's… stunning."

"Isn't it?" Holmes stepped forward and lifted the watch by its seemingly-liquid chain. "Here."

He ducked to fasten the clasp. I saw Mrs. Hudson speaking to Dr. Watson as though through a wall of rippled glass, saw Ronnie waggling her eyebrows suggestively from where she was trapped outside of this moment. I could hear her voice calling Holmes my gentleman friend, and then I realized how much I longed to lean back so that his nimble fingers would brush my neck.

Before Ronnie had made her assumptions, I had never considered Holmes as a _man_ before, not really, and certainly not in any romantic light. But now that the idea was in my head I could feel his presence so strongly, like a magnetic pull behind me and I just wanted to lean into him, to sit in front of the fire with our shoulders touching, just to embrace him and not fear that he would pull away in surprise and disgust-

"It suits you." I startled out of the manic ramblings of my mind to see that Holmes was once again standing in front of me, a soft smile playing about his mouth. I could feel the weight of the watch and its gentle ticking against my breastbone.

I wanted to say something. The quasi-logical part of my mind wanted to just ask, to clarify the nature of our relationship, to ask Holmes to stop looking at me like I was a real person and go back to treating me like a mechanized assistant if that was how he thought of me. Then the true logic intervened before I could spoil my evening.

My hand drifted up to rest on the precious gift. "Thank you, Holmes. I will treasure it." He nodded, as if to say that he would not have given it to me if he didn't believe that I would, and suddenly the moment had passed.

_Damned sherry,_ I thought irritable. _Russell, you know more than anyone that you can't drink to save your life. You need to sleep it off._

So after less than an hour more of cheerful conversation and struggling to stay awake in front of the hypnotizing fire, I made sure that Ronnie was comfortable getting home alone and excused myself to my closet.

"It was a wonderful evening everyone," I said over and over as I made my retreat. "Thank you so much. No, Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I don't have room for even another bite of the tart. Yes, it was delicious. Yes, I do have some nightclothes. Yes. Thank you. A wonderful evening."

Thankfully I soon escaped and nearly ran down the stairs to the cool and darkness of my closet. I only stood breathing heavily in the pitch black for a moment before feeling my way through undressing and slipping under the covers of the mattress on the floor. The drink and the internal turmoil battled for a few minutes, but I fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

I awoke suddenly from another nightmare. They were less frequent now but just as vivid, and as I struggled to free myself from the groggy fingers of sleep the terror was very real.

Eventually, I remembered where I was and where the matches and candles were, so I lit one and breathed evenly in a few more minutes, letting the light do its work. The watch Holmes had given me was still around my neck, and its tiny heartbeat mirrored my own in an oddly comforting way.

I decided that I needed to walk for a minute, so I stood, blew out the candle, and crept out onto the landing. Here I could still see, albeit dimly, and I heard a clock downstairs chime three. Not unusually, however, I could hear violin music flowing down the stairs. I debated briefly with my better judgment and eventually tiptoed up to the door of 221B, prepared to escape at any moment.

The streamers were still strewn about the room and a few candles still guttered in their perches. The fire was barely more than embers, yet still Holmes stood in front of it, drawing that strange, thoughtful tune from the violin. I suddenly recognized it as the waltz he had played on that rainy October day before our first case together.

I leaned against the door and listened for several minutes, not belying my presence by breath nor by motion. Holmes did not dance with the tune tonight, but only stood and stared into the fire as he played.

After perhaps four minutes, the song reached its finale with a showy arpeggio and Holmes let the instrument fall from his shoulder to hang lifelessly opposite the bow. He stood like this for most of a minute while I watched, feeling that I was intruding but too nervous to move in the sudden silence. Then, all of a sudden, he lashed out with a foot to kick his soft chair. When he collided with it and the wooden frame beneath the cushions, he uttered a low cry and tossed his violin into the chair opposite before throwing himself down into the offending furniture, resting his head wearily in one hand.

I saw no more, for I withdrew stealthily, frightened for some reason by this second uncharacteristic show of emotion, and stole back to my closet to spend several more hours in wakefulness before the ticking of the watch lulled me back into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

_At what point does writing fanfiction become a diagnosable problem? Send help. :-P Haha in all seriousness this story is RIDICULOUSLY fun to write, please review so I know what people like!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay, guys! School has started and it's going to be harder for me to upload regularly. But I'd still love to hear from you in the comments!

Fair warning: this chapter includes some disturbing imagery, including kidnapping and death. Later chapters will include torture and other dark themes. I try to keep it from getting too graphic, but please keep this in mind and use appropriate discretion.

* * *

**Chapter VIII**

The morning after my eventful birthday, I awoke early. I dressed in the dark in an old dress that was still folded in a corner of the closet and tugged a brush through my heavily curled hair, plaiting it back into its usual form. I could feel the remnants of the sherry from the previous night slowing my thoughts and dulling my senses, but a steady seep of cold air from beneath the door kept me alert enough to struggle through my routine and step cautiously out onto the landing.

The frigid air was coming down from 221B, and my curiosity overcame the apprehensiveness brought on by last night's strange events. The door was open, as was usual, and there was a fresh smear of slush near the frame. Either Watson or Holmes had been out recently, and it seemed unlikely that Watson would be up.

The flat was silent but remnants of Holmes's work were strewn about the place, hiding any remaining evidence of the previous night's festivities. Old and creased newspapers littered the table and various files were pulled from their normal places on the shelves. He had a case, then. I wondered why he hadn't mentioned it to me.

I had to smile when I saw Holmes. He had fallen asleep in his chair, pipe dangling from fingers and the ash spilled out onto the floor. The window behind him was open and a few snowflakes had flecked his dark hair with white. Someone, probably Dr. Watson, had thrown a blanket across his knees.

I examined his face. It was tight and drawn and there were circles under his eyes. In the dawn's first light reflected in from the snow, his pale face seemed even more sallow than it had the previous night.

As I turned to examine the newspapers for clues as to the nature of the case, a shiver ran down my spine. I was wrapped in the shawl which Watson had given me, so it wasn't the sharp air from the window. I waited for the feeling to become more clear, and, after a few seconds, the hair on the back of my neck raised. Something was wrong. What had I seen? What had my subconscious noticed?

Watson was snoring in an adjacent room. He certainly hadn't been in or out recently. I took a few brisk steps and crouched to dip my finger into the small pile of ashes beneath Holmes's limp hand. They were completely cold. He had been asleep here for some time.

But the ice in the man's bootprint by the door had not yet melted.

I stood up and pulled my hands into the defensive position which Holmes had taught me one warm spring day, the first step in the style of fighting which was his own unique blend of Oriental arts and traditional boxing. I was guarded, my stance was stable- until it wasn't. A wave of nausea hit me with a throb of my head and I staggered, wondering that the sherry was still affecting me so strongly.

_Wrong again, _an urgent and entirely internal voice whispered to me. _You've been drugged, and so has Holmes. He opened the window to keep himself awake. Check beneath the blanket._

I obeyed this intuition as though in a daze, clinging to the back of the chair to keep upright. Whatever was wreaking havoc on my balance was only worsening the longer I was alert. Sure enough, when I tugged the blanket to the floor, I could see that Holmes had his pistol clutched tight in his other hand, aimed discreetly at the door. He had succumbed to the drugs too, then.

Terror raced through me, its process slowed as the vile substance turned my muscles and bones alike to sludge. I fell to my knees at Holmes's side, still clutching the chair, and a horrifying thought hit me much later than it should have. I snatched at his hand, pale and still as it was, but had trouble making my fingers find the wrist. It was cold and stiff and utterly unresponsive. I opened my mouth to cry out but my leaden tongue would only allow me a grief-stricken moan.

"I told you it'd work," a deep voice announced from the doorway. It was all I could do to turn my head towards the noise as my vision wavered and I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach down. A stereotypically thug-like gentleman with a red face and meaty hands was watching me, clearly satisfied with his accomplishments. "It goes in waves like that. Now there won't be any evidence of us forcing the lock on her door."

Another man, this one small and reptilian and utterly sinister, appeared. "Shut up, you idiot, she's still conscious." He stepped forward and crouched to leer at me. "Enjoying yourself, little missy?"

I glared at him as I swayed but didn't dare attempt to move my arms enough to take a swing.

"That's what I thought. You're going to have a nice, long sleep very soon, and when you wake up we're going to have a little talk about some things."

Then the dark at the edges of my vision contracted, and a great rush of vertigo overwhelmed me. Something hit my face which I later identified as the floor. Then nothing.

* * *

When I awoke I guessed that I had been asleep for some hours. Through the bars of a small window streamed the late afternoon sunlight unique to that part of the winter. I pushed myself up off of the rough, cold stone floor, relieved that the nausea at least seemed to have dissipated, and examined my surroundings.

The window was the only light. I appeared to be in some kind of cellar with the walls hewn directly from the hard-packed dirt. It was of a color which I did not recognize from any of the regions within London, but it was similar to some, so I thought that I wasn't far.

Watson's shawl had been tossed haphazardly on top of me and I pulled it close. He must have had it in 221B for some days before the party, because it carried that unique and familiar smell. I pressed my face to it and breathed the scents of pipe tobacco and gunpowder which I had first found so unpleasant. Tears pricked at my eyes. Holmes was dead and I had been unable to defend him or myself. All of his teachings were for naught, it would seem.

I noticed a tin cup of water and a small loaf of bread on the floor. Suddenly I realized the dryness of my mouth and the hollowness of my stomach, so I downed these quickly after sniffing them for any traces of narcotics. There was no way for me to escape now, that was clear enough. The heavy oak door would be bolted from the outside, the bars on the window securely built into the wall. My captors were certainly too intelligent to keep me captive where any screams might be heard.

With this solace of disappointment and hopelessness, I crawled to the corner and allowed the tears to escape. Soon they were running in little streams down my face, shaken free by hiccoughing sobs. Then my face was pressed into the shawl as I wept bitterly.

I hadn't cried like this since after the funeral of my family. Then, I had sat with my disapproving aunt and sobbed like I would never live again. I had still had that gnawing guilt in my heart when I came to London, had tried to escape it in the foggy streets. But I hadn't lost it, truly come out from under the shadow and begun to live again, until my life at 221. There were people who cared and as many diverting puzzles as I could want. I felt human again.

Now Holmes was dead. Dead and cold in his chair, and I had _smiled_. I had thought him asleep after a long night of work. I had seen my closest friend's corpse and smiled.

This thought brought the bitter tang of nausea back to my tongue, but I swallowed hard and made myself keep the meager meal inside. The coldly logical part of me knew that it would be a long time before my next food.

_Will Watson be the one to find him? The one to wake smiling from a good dream and come out to breakfast, tying his dressing gown and ready to face the excited Holmes, and discover him, cold and stiff, still clutching his gun and his pipe, snow collecting in his hair and eyebrows?_

Against my will the images flowed. Holmes lying for hours because Watson was still drugged, snow filling his hollow cheekbones and frost settling in his eyelashes, the pipe eventually falling silently to the carpet as the entire room was infiltrated by the winter. Ice obscuring the pictures on the newspaper. Icicles across the mantelpiece, the tobacco slipper the odd one out like a children's differences game.

The light from outside faded and still I cried. Some small childish part of me deep inside hoped that I would hear the door bang open and Holmes would be there, pistol in hand, alert and ready to defend me from unknown dangers just because he had heard me cry out. _If he comes in and rescues me, _I promised myself, _I will kiss him. I will kiss him like I wanted to when he was waltzing alone in front of the fire, and when we bantered in the cab after our first case, and when he fastened his mother's locket around my neck._

Just as that scene replayed in my mind, I remembered that I was still wearing the watch. Clearly my abductors had no wish to take my valuables, for the priceless silver necklace was still resting against my chest. _Tip, tip, tip_ went the delicate inner mechanisms in the silent room. _Tap, tap, tap,_ a pipe being emptied, impatient fingers on the table.

"_Well, Russell?"_

I sniffed and wiped the tears from beneath my glasses. I was eighteen years old, damn it, and I was Sherlock Holmes's apprentice. I could focus long enough to evade some petty kidnappers without losing myself in girlish fantasies.

"_Not petty. That attack was well-planned. It got past me, so it must have been."_

I closed my eyes. "You were working late at night, after I saw you playing violin," I whispered, finding it easier to pretend that my friend and mentor was listening and judging every word which came out of my mouth. "But then you stopped and sat up to guard the door. You noticed the effects of the drugs and opened the window. It must have been something in the newspapers which tripped your realization," I murmured, wishing that I had had more than a cursory glance at them before events began unfolding. "They were old. An old case, perhaps, a nemesis out for blood?" I furrowed my brow. "But why would they kill you before kidnapping me, if it was you they wished to harm?" I pushed that theory aside and started anew. "Someone made one attempt, and you subdued them, but rather than wake the house or call the police you sat watch."

The disappointment was palpable. "Yes, yes, I know, you would have stood watch in a more strategic position so as to protect the other inhabitants of the house. That makes no sense. So you knew that you were drugged and couldn't risk going downstairs. You opened the window and sat up as long as you could but eventually succumbed. If you had suspected that any of the rest of us was in danger, however," I realized, "you would have risked the climb. If you could open the window then you could get down to the landing."

"_Really, Russell," Holmes said agitatedly as he took a long draw on his pipe. The flare illuminated his face for a brief second before his features faded back into the darkness. His watchful eyes bored into my face. "The newspapers. Why did you not look at the newspapers?"_

"_I'm sorry, Holmes!" I cried. "I don't know how any of this will help me, besides!"_

"_Knowledge is power, Russell. And right now you have no power, so you must find knowledge."_

Our exchange was interrupted by my being woken from the restless dream to see that it was once again morning. A figure stood in the doorway across from me and I jumped to my feet, only to fall back against the wall as I recognized the dull pressure in my arm. Someone had injected me with more narcotics as I slept.

I blinked against the light and cried out when I recognized the figure.

"Sidney?"

The old man looked at me sadly. "I am sorry, Miss Russell. This is the only way." His London accent was gone and replaced with the concise drawl of the American South.

"But… Sidney?" I asked again, too appalled to believe that he could somehow be behind this.

He only shook his head. Now that he was standing up straight, hands in pockets and in control of the situation, I could see that he really wasn't quite as old as I had thought. His familiar face still shocked me, however. I had looked across the counter at this man and asked for his recommendations for a rainy day read, had spent hours in his shop with him for my sole company.

Before I could react further, however, he had left. The door swung shut with a decisive thump and I heard multiple locks slide into place. The drugs were catching up to me, I noticed with panic as I fell to the floor, black swirling around me and a babble of voices, some belonging to my family but mostly Holmes's, ricocheting around the inside of my skull.

"Please," I whispered to a streak of grit on the stone floor. "Please."

Then, once again, nothing.

* * *

_*dramatic music* Well guys, what do you think? Theories? Suggestions? Hate-filled rants? Bring it on!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Violence warning for this chapter. In other news, IT'S FRIDAY! Have a good weekend everyone, and I'll update as soon as I can. Please review as usual because it makes my day and lets me know what you like!

* * *

**Chapter IX**

Two more days came and went while I rested and gathered my information. I ate every scrap of the bread provided and drank the water. After the first day, I realized that, if I rattled the cup against the door, a guard would open a small slatted window and take it to be refilled. A pot was provided for my needs twice a day. I was no longer drugged when I fell asleep. Over all, I was well-treated.

This was one of the vital clues which helped to lead me to a conclusion. Clearly, my removal from the scene was the only purpose, for I wasn't being paraded, tortured, or otherwise used. This probably meant that I was being used to get to someone else, or else being held for ransom. Holmes, the only person I knew who was important enough for someone to manipulate them in such a way, was dead. Since my fit of tears, I had pressed down the emotions around this to be addressed at a future therapy session. For now, it was only a fact.

My aunt was in charge of my fortune. She might be asked to surrender it in exchange for my release, but I doubted that the matter would even reach the authorities if that was the case. Anyone with a carefully-planned kidnapping plan would have realized how little time she and I spent in each other's company.

Besides, Holmes had anticipated the attack, but not on me. He had thought only that he himself was in danger. Perhaps he had been the target, then, but how would my kidnapping affect him if he was dead?

Then it hit me, and I could have slapped myself. Holmes wasn't dead! Of course he was cold; he had been sitting in front of an open window in January for hours. And in the mad scramble of panic, it was possible, in fact likely, that I had simply missed his sleepy pulse. That was the only reasonable explanation.

I stood up in excitement, ready to laugh or cry or both, and the empty room stared back at me in the dying light. Before I could make a choice, however, the door was opened a crack and a tray was slid inside.

I approached cautiously, as usual, prepared to take the bread and water and retreat back to my side of the room, and saw that a bowl of stew accompanied the meal and the water had been replaced with a steaming cup of tea. My first reaction was relief; frost had been forming on my eyelashes when I slept huddled on the floor under Watson's shawl. The tips of my fingers were numb and stiff with cold and they welcomed the warmth of the chipped mug.

Then my suspicions were aroused. The nice food was probably meant to tempt me into consuming something I would rather not without stopping to think about it. I sniffed at the tea, but my only complaint was that it didn't seem as strong as I would have preferred. The stew also seemed to be perfectly fine.

A thought occurred to me, and I pulled the smallest crumb from the loaf of bread and touched it to my tongue. Very, very faintly, I could taste a cloying sweetness that was out of place. Whoever had me captive was incredibly clever to put the drugs into the only food I would trust.

I took the entire tray back to where the shawl was bundled on the floor to make a kind of cushion and sat down. The stew was hearty and dense with beef and vegetables and it filled my stomach and gave me strength like I hadn't had since my capture. I allowed the tea to warm my fingers for a few minutes before sipping at it. When I was finished and had hidden the bread in a fold of my skirt, I stood and stretched, feeling the blood inching back into my fingers, toes, and ears. I jumped up and down and pinwheeled my arms a few times, ran in place, kicked my legs up as high as they would go. Suddenly I was confident in my own strength. I punched an imaginary foe squarely in the jaw.

If I was being held hostage to manipulate Holmes, then something- or someone- truly devious was at work here. I had to get out and back to Holmes so that we could face the threat together.

I picked up the tray and moved it back to the door, then lifted the mug to clank it purposefully against the wall. "Hey," I called loudly, "can I have some more tea?"

The small window in the door slid open, as I had expected, and I made as though to hand the cup through. At the last second, however, I darted out my hand and grabbed that of the guard, yanking it inside as he cried out in pain. When he staggered forward, I managed to wriggle my other hand through just far enough to grab the front of his shirt. With him thus secured, I pulled one of his fingers as far backwards as it would go without breaking.

"If you would be so kind as to open the door," I asked politely.

The guard gasped as the tiny bones and ligaments in his hand creaked. "I ca-can't!"

_Snap._ I looked at the bent appendage for a moment, the beginnings of disgust roiling in my stomach, before gripping the next digit. "Open the door."

"No!" This time it was a sob. The sob of a young man who didn't know what he was getting into when he signed up with my captor.

_Snap._

Now a shriek as he tried to pull his hand back through before I could do more damage, but I had him in too tight a grip, and he was bent over and off-balance. The shriek died and resolved into a low moan.

"Please," I asked quietly, dragging a nail along the man's ring finger. A shudder rolled through the hand and into me and I hated myself for doing it, but I had to get out. I had to get back to Holmes. "Very well," I said lightly, wrapping my entire hand around the finger and beginning to bend it-

"No, wait!" he gasped, and I waited as I heard the bolts slide back. When the door inched open, I released the poor man's hand and kicked it open. I stepped out to stand above him, and I saw just how young he was. Barely older than myself, in fact, and cowering on the floor as he cradled his broken hand. Tears streamed down his face.

"Here," I said softly, producing the bread and laying it down next to him. "If you're still alone when you wake up, eat this. The drugs will take away the pain for a while."

He looked at me, confused and frightened. "What do you mean, when I wake up?"

"This." I brought my foot around with a precisely-calculated force to connect with the boy's temple, thus neatly eliminating him from the equation.

I was standing in a short, dimly-lit hallway, which culminated in a short flight of stone stairs and another heavy-looking door. The only light was a guttering candle in a holder next to the unconscious guard, and I picked this up and stepped cautiously towards the door. I could hear nothing as I neared, so I pressed my ear to the rough wood.

"…serves us right for saying anything, I suppose." I was startled to hear that it was a woman speaking, and a young one at that.

"Of course! Daniel was perfectly all right to guard the kid himself, all your nonsense about extra guards was for nothing. And now we can't sleep until dawn," another female voice replied.

The first voice moaned. "I can't believe we've only been here for six hours. It seems like so much longer!"

I felt a rush of triumph. Two young women, tired after a long stint of guard duty and complacent in the face of another uneventful several hours, would be easy to overpower. I silently tested the doorknob as Holmes had taught me. Unlocked. I set down the candle, noticing the light emanating from around the door, and stretched my joints. Then, in one rapid motion, I opened the door.

The two women sat at the table, which was spotted by the light of three windows too high to reach. My attention was immediately drawn away from them, however, by the five burly men seated in front of the fire. They all looked up at me as I entered and grinned crookedly.

One of them turned to his neighbor while I stood frozen. "Like clockwork, isn't she? Just like he said."

"You figured out our little puzzle!" another exclaimed in mock delight. "Good for you, little girl."

_Little girl,_ I snarled inwardly, right hand darting to the scar on my palm. That dangerous flare of confidence and competition tore through me, sending my eyes searching about the room. My mind flickered through thoughts lightning-fast.

_Fire poker. Coals. Women's eyes, first two men in two strokes. Gain table, disable with kick and stab another, assess position of fifth._

Before I had even finished planning my attack, I had launched myself off of the wall and straight at the women, who flinched away. I rolled between them to grab the fire poker. I swept the hem of my shawl into the coals, scooping up plenty of suitable projectiles and scorching my hands in the process, and flung them into their eyes, leaving them to lie screaming on the floor. Flaming garment trailing behind me, I swung about to dismiss two of the men with strokes from the poker, slicing the neck of one and gouging the eyes of the other. Then I vaulted from an overturned chair to land, catlike, on the table, and spun with leg outstretched to detach another man with a solid shoe heel to the head and get a couple of quick stabs into the fourth.

Before I could deal with the fifth man, however, he had scooped my legs out from underneath me and pinned me face-down on the table. My glasses slid down my nose. I heard the sound of a blade being pulled from a case as I wriggled and panicked, choked by the layers of dirt and dust on the wood. He heaved himself up to straddle my hips and prevent me from moving, and I thought that the pressure would crack my spine. Then, suddenly, his rough hands were tugging and tearing at the neck of my dress.

I took the only option open to a woman in my situation and screamed with all of my voice. A hoarse, ragged cry of animal terror ripped from my throat as I struggled fruitlessly.

The sound of his chuckle made me feel physically ill. "Don't flatter yourself, little girl. I'm just sending a message."

The point of the icy blade pressed into my right shoulder blade and I stopped struggling, unable to do anything but shake uncontrollably as obscenely delicate fingers stroked my bare back, planning carefully their horrible art.

After a few seconds of this, and utterly without warning, the blade sliced wetly through my skin in a single short stroke. I tried to cry out but only managed to wheeze out a great quantity of stale air. Another quick cut, and another, and soon the warm blood was pooling on my back and running down over my arm. Still the delicate carving continued and I eventually identified it as writing. _Sending a message._

When the man had finished, he reached around to where Holmes's locket rested on the table, the chain flung outwards from my chest. He pulled it out of my sight and this time I did cry out as I heard the screech of metal against metal.

Then it was over. He pulled me upright by the offended arm, sending waves of searing pain through my back. Once I was satisfactorily vertical, he shepherded me down another hallway which I had not noticed before and to a partially-open door. This led to a narrow cobbled street, silver with ice and the first light of the moon, and I was propelled face-forward down to the ground with a hearty laugh.

"Say hello to Mr. Holmes for us, won't you?" And the door shut.

* * *

After stumbling and crawling for most of an hour, I found another human who wasn't too drunk to notice me. It was a man, standing outside his doorway and enjoying a leisurely cigar. I could barely see this, of course, because I was still steadily losing blood and had been without any medical attention since the attack.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, running over to me as I fell to my knees for the umpteenth time. "Lady, are you all right?"

"Baker Street," I begged. "I have to get to Baker Street."

A supporting arm went around my waist and, when it became clear that I couldn't stand, another tucked under my knees to carry me. Through the darkness and the pounding in my ears, I heard the sound of a cab being hailed.

"You need to get to a doctor," the man insisted.

"No, I beg of you. 221 Baker Street. I must see Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

I flitted in and out of consciousness as the cab rattled towards our destination. I hadn't even the energy to ask whether we were indeed going to Baker Street.

After some long stretch of time, we stopped and I heard my concerned rescuer jump out and bang on a door. In the silence that followed, I caught the strains of a violin's playing. That waltz again, but slow and mournful and entirely different. We were at Baker Street, then.

The man banged on the door again and I heard it creak open.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked tiredly.

"I have a lady here who must see Sherlock Holmes," the man insisted.

There was a pause, and then she responded. "I suppose I can ask, but I doubt he's taking any clients at the moment."

"Thank you. Please hurry." Steps tramped away. The stair protested. I breathed in some of the crystalline night air and it burned my lungs. I still couldn't see.

Then I heard the window slide open and that dear, longed-for voice, so familiar and yet so startling after my days of solitude, called down, dripping with anger. "Take your petty infidelity and blackmail and leave, whoever you are!" I opened my mouth to try and speak but could only croak. "If you read the papers you would know that I am engaged in a murder case of the utmost importance!"

_Murder? _I wondered. _Not kidnapping? Is he on another case, or does he think me dead?_

I summoned up the rest of my meager strength and tumbled down from the hansom. The driver seemed to be ignoring the entire exchange and offered me no assistance. I staggered upright, leaning heavily against the vehicle for support, and turned my face up to where I knew the window to be.

The dark spots obscuring my vision parted for a mere fraction of a second and I could see Holmes's face, illuminated by the clear winter starlight, staring down at me, an expression of pure shock across his features. I knew by his face that I was visible, too. Neither of us moved for a second or two.

Then I heard the discord of an instrument crashing to the floor and wild running footsteps down the stairs. My vision faded once more and the night returned to its natural darkness. The cool, smooth surface of the cab was pressed against my back where my dress had been torn, and it was soothing on my wounds. It felt as though I was spinning high in the air though I could feel my feet planted firmly on the ground, and it was only just in time that Holmes reached me, for my legs were shaking uncontrollably and were about to give out.

"Russell," he murmured, relief and awe and the residual fright coloring his voice in fascinating ways. I felt his hands guide me back to the entrance of the hansom, push me gently into a sitting position, tug the shawl closer around my shoulders after pausing to brush over my wounds. He gave no reaction so I guessed that the words were not readable. Perhaps I had only imagined that it was writing.

His long fingers brushed a few loose strands of hair back behind my ears. Their tips dusted across my cheekbones, they adjusted the shawl again, pushed my glasses back into place, came to rest on my shoulders. I realized that I hadn't said anything yet.

"Holmes," I tried to begin, squinting up at him in an attempt to make out his features. My voice was raspy and hoarse from screaming and exhaustion but I thought that it was probably understandable.

"What in God's name am I doing?" I heard him murmur to himself, and I was once again being lifted. I allowed my head to rest against his chest, relaxed and happy despite the pain. The scent of pipe smoke was so familiar and comforting that I almost fell asleep in his arms. To make myself stay conscious as he brusquely thanked my rescuer and brought me upstairs, to the shock and mild hysteria of Mrs. Hudson, I focused on observations, such as I could make. Could I determine whether or not Watson was home?

"Good Lord, is that Mary?" I heard the doctor ask. Well, that was easy enough.

I could feel a light dusting of stubble on Holmes's chin where it brushed my forehead. Whatever state of dishevelment his clothing was in, he always found time to shave. He had been greatly distracted the last few days, then.

After this, however, my mind became too sluggish to extract any more meaning from the world around me. I was deposited gently into a chair before the fire, where I curled and dozed while Watson cleaned my wounds and bandaged them. I heard a few exclamations of disgust from behind me, and I presumed that the "message" had been discovered. Eventually someone pressed a cup of water into my hands, which I drank greedily, then another, and then a good strong cup of tea. When I finally really was too weary to keep my head upright, Holmes started to lift me again, presumably to take me to a bed.

"No," I murmured. "Here. I want to- to see the fire."

So I was set back down and wrapped in fresh, clean blankets, and my vision slowly returned. The last thing that I saw before my eyes slid shut from pure exhaustion was a picturesque image of Holmes and Watson in their chairs before the fire. Both were watching me intently for any signs of illness, perhaps, or simply because they had thought never to see me again. Holmes clutched a pipe between his teeth but had not lit it, only fingered it thoughtfully and chewed the stem. Watson was pretending to read a book but had it held only comically high so as to be able to glance casually over it at me.

With this cheerful and familiar image at hand, a soft smile tugged uncontrollably at my mouth as I slipped into my first restful slumber in days.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait, guys! Believe me when I say that I'd rather be doing this than practicing stoichiometry or reading about the Founding Fathers (though admittedly both are quite interesting), but I'm a bit drowning in homework at the moment. I'll aim for an update a week but I can't promise anything. In the meantime, this is the longest chapter so far, so enjoy and please review!

* * *

**Chapter X**

When I awoke it was midmorning, according to the clock on the mantelpiece. Something seemed terribly wrong to me, however, as if my heart had stopped beating. For a moment I truly thought that this was the case, dazed as I was, until I realized what was out of place: the watch was no longer ticking.

I glanced around the flat and saw that I was alone. I moved aside a fold of Watson's shawl, which was by now horribly burnt and bloodied and torn, and tugged the chain out from the front of my dress. To my great horror, my captor had completely destroyed the gorgeous locket. The case was deeply gouged so that the pattern was no longer visible. Full of desperate hope, I pressed the catch, only to be rewarded with a sprinkling of broken glass which nipped at my hands as it fell to collect in a fold on my lap. I gently shook it next to my ear and could hear the internal mechanisms jingling about uselessly.

"Russell?" I looked up, tears in my eyes, to see Holmes standing in the doorway. He must have noticed my miserable expression for he came cautiously forwards into the room. "Is something wrong? Does your shoulder pain you?"

I held up the mauled locket as an explanation. "Your lovely gift," I said unevenly. "He destroyed it. I don't think it can be fixed, Holmes."

He stepped forward and took the object from me, holding it by the tips of his long fingers. A slight frown distorted his mouth for mere seconds before he laid it on a table and sat down opposite me, fingers steepled and gaze intense.

"Russell, I am hardly concerned with trinkets in the present situation. What information can you give me about your kidnappers? It is of the utmost importance to me that they be brought to justice as soon as is possible." His words were formal and businesslike but his voice belied the tension which had been plaguing him in past days.

I sat up straight and intentionally matched his tone. "Please explain two things to me first, and I will recount in great detail all that I remember." I took the slight inclination of his head to be an affirmative. "I heard you and Watson exclaim at the wounds on my back. I deduced from the manner of strokes inflicted by the knife that they were to form words. What do they say?"

Holmes must have known that this would be my first line of inquiry, yet his face still twisted with sour disgust and it was several seconds before he attempted to answer. "It says-" And here his fists and jaw clenched and it was yet longer before he could compose himself. "Carved into your shoulder are the words 'Hello, Mr. Holmes.'"

_I was propelled face-forward down to the ground with a hearty laugh. "Say hello to Mr. Holmes for us, won't you?"_

I shuddered, feeling the abused skin throb and burn against Watson's carefully applied bandage. "I suppose that that confirms my theory, such as it is. My other question is this: I heard you yell at the man who brought me here that you were engaged in a murder case."

I didn't need to add the obvious inquisitive conclusion. Had my case been thought to be one of murder, or had Holmes been engaged on another case?

In response, Holmes stood and came to stand next to me. This was the first moment that I realized that I was occupying the same chair which he habitually inhabited and the chair where I had found him that morning and thought him to be dead. Holmes bent to lift the edge of an odd rug which had not been there the last I had seen this room. Beneath was a disturbingly large burgundy stain, certainly more blood than could be the result of a single injury.

"There was also a note," Holmes continued after we had both stared at the grotesque sight for a minute. He deposited a thoroughly-wrinkled piece of paper into my waiting hands. I could immediately see that it had been analyzed to within an inch of its life, with samples absent from the corners and strange chemicals spotting the ink. It was simple, generic handwriting, probably male, and read "The loss of the girl was unfortunate. Keep the others close." I frowned and handed it back.

Holmes froze for a moment as he accepted the paper. "Russell, surely you did not think that I was on some other case while I knew you to be missing?"

My abashed silence was answer enough. Holmes sighed as he threw himself down into the other chair. "For God's sake, Russell, you must take me to be a heartless automaton. I haven't slept," he continued forcefully, "since I awoke and found that note. I hoped that you might be alive but I couldn't focus clearly enough to see past their obvious ruse. It's been… hell," he finished. He drew a deep breath and looked at me. I was started by his fervor, especially after the careful mask he had displayed minutes before.

I swallowed and tried to think of something to say. "I'm glad to be home," I began before I realized that I _was_ at home. My aunt's house held no affection for me. "My aunt!" I exclaimed. "Did she even know that I was gone?"

Holmes watched me from under his eyebrows. "She was kept updated by the police. She has been informed that you are safe and expressed a preference to stay here for a time."

I nodded my thanks just as Watson strode, overly-cheerful and clearly in a doctoring mindset, into the room. "Mary! How are you feeling this morning?"

I flexed a few muscles to address their condition. "Grimy and stiff, I should say," I responded, forcing myself to smile as muscles all over my body cried out in pain. My fingers popped as they bent and, rolling my neck, I was disgusted by the way that tendrils of my hair stuck to the blood and dirt on my neck. "Am I permitted to indulge in a bath, doctor?"

Watson briefly probed my bandages. "I think that that would be acceptable."

I turned to Holmes. "I'm sorry to hold you in suspense, but perhaps I could relay my story after I am bathed and dressed?"

Holmes waved a hand unconcernedly as he stood. I hardly had time be surprised at his reaction before he had lit a pipe and was pacing the floor of the small flat.

* * *

It took me a good hour because of my injuries and my distaste at removing myself from the comfort of the bath, but I eventually made my way back to 221B, hair loose and damp because I could not easily lift my arms to put it back. I had had one other dress in my closet, a new rich purple one with lightly puffed sleeves and a gentle flare as it reached the tops of my shoes, but could not bring myself to work my tortured body into the ridiculous figure. Therefore, I was dressed in the new men's clothing which Ronnie had given me for my birthday five days previously.

As I entered, I could see Mrs. Hudson laying an extravagant luncheon on the table, and I realized for the first time that I was hungry and thirsty after the long night. She saw me come in and smiled brightly. "Miss Russell, it is good to have you back!"

"I'm very happy to be back, Mrs. Hudson."

She looked as though she might embrace me for a moment, but then apparently thought better of it when she remembered my injuries. She set down a plate piled high with sandwiches, some cold chicken, and a carafe of wine to complete the table before taking her tray and bustling off downstairs.

"Well, Russell?" I heard Holmes ask, and turned to see him still standing and smoking.

I cast a longing glance at the array of food but dutifully went to sit in a chair before the fire. "Yes. Well, I awoke early the morning after my birthday. I was tired, but I thought that perhaps it was only the aftereffects of the sherry. A cold breeze coming from upstairs helped to keep me alert as I dressed, and then I came to identify its source. As I entered the room I saw a bit of ice on the doorframe and assumed that you had been out recently. However, you were asleep in your chair…"

I proceeded to recount every relevant detail of the preceding days, including my theories. Holmes alternated between sitting and smoking thoughtfully and standing and pacing. Occasionally he would dart a glance at me when some particularly interesting detail came up, but otherwise he seemed more absorbed in his feet. When I described my escape attempt, my voice faltered, but I plowed through.

After nearly half an hour, I had finished my tale, ending with my rescuer taking me by cab to Baker Street. In the ensuing lull, my stomach growled audibly.

Holmes puffed away on his pipe, brow furrowed and eyes downcast with his long legs draped over the arm of his chair. When it was clear that he wasn't taking any notice of me, I stood and went to partake of Mrs. Hudson's delightful spread. Even as I ate and he thought in complete silence, there was a subtle companionship between us that I had missed desperately during my captivity.

I stuffed myself and watched as Holmes lit a second, then a third pipe. The minutes stretched into an hour, then more, and after I had taken my things back down to the kitchen he was still deep in thought.

I wandered over to where the locket still lay on the table. Picking it up, I saw again just how damaged it was. I knew its value to Holmes and that he would probably be upset about it later, but I doubted that he would let me see it. Perhaps I would take it to a jeweler's and see what could be done.

"And you're certain that it was this Sidney fellow?"

Starting, I turned to face Holmes, who was watching me intently from his chair. "Yes, quite sure."

"Do you still have the books you bought from him?"

"All of them," I confirmed. "Most of them are in my closet." The walls of that small room were slowly becoming hidden by piles and stacks of reading material. Without another word, Holmes stood and strode briskly out and down the stairs. I followed him, filled with that inexplicable panic you feel when someone is about to enter your personal place. "I could get them for you, you know, if you want to look over them-" But then it was too late and the door had been flung open.

I tried to see the space through his eyes. A tiny mattress draped in blankets and pillows was shoved against the left wall. By the head was a stack of boxes where I kept clothing and other personal objects. I had brought a few of my more treasured possessions from my room in my aunt's residence. The entire right wall was stacked with books. One pile served as a low table and held a dirty mug, a candle, and a little mirror. Soot stained the ceiling in various places and there was a very lived-in feeling.

I hesitated in the doorway while Holmes charged ahead, clearly moving rapidly from the stage of deep thought to that of manic investigation. He displaced two tall stacks of books and began looking through them, probably looking for patterns in the titles or some such nonsense. In his haste, he knocked aside one of the boxes and it spilled its contents out onto the bed.

This had been my childhood treasures box. After the accident, I had considered my childhood over and had refrained from going through the memories as I once had done so frequently. Now, a sort of morbid curiosity overcame me, and I felt drawn to these mementos of an entirely different life. I barely even remembered what the box contained.

As though in a trance, I sat on the edge of the mattress and began picking through the objects. Holmes watched with half of his gaze while he continued to rifle through the books. Here was a photograph of my family, all stony-faced because we had had to stand still for so long. My brother had a hand wrapped in my mother's skirt, my father had an arm each around her shoulders and mine. Here was a whistle that I had made out of a bit of reed one summer when we visited a lake. Here was a little jar of buttons, a little felt dog, two sheets of violin music from Vivaldi's "Four Seasons," a crude drawing of my old home. It was like looking through a window into someone else's childhood.

I picked up the box, prepared to replace its contents before the emotion of it caught up with me, and noticed something trapped in the very bottom. It was white and worn, and at first I mistook it for a bit of tissue wrapping. However, as I held it up to examine it, I saw that it was a white handkerchief, dirty and threadbare in many places, with a small, monogrammed _H_ in the corner.

I held the object in my palms like a baby bird, as though a breath would blow it away, and remembered something which had not occurred to me in years.

* * *

_"It was very nice of that boy to give you his handkerchief," my mother said softly as she untied it from my palm. I winced, expecting to see the gushing blood and torn skin from earlier, but was startled to see that the skin was already repairing._

_"It's a magic handkerchief!" I cried. "It made my hand better!"_

_My mother laughed and washed the injury with a warm cloth. "It certainly must be! I think that you'd better keep it for luck."_

_So I scrubbed the brownish stains from it and kept it in my pocket._

* * *

I only stared at the little piece of cloth for a long minute until Holmes noticed my stillness and turned to see what I had found.

"Is that-" he asked, just as surprised as I, when he caught sight of it.

"Yes."

We shared a moment of silence at the odd little memory. Then Holmes chuckled softly.

"It was very rude of you not to return it."

I grinned and held it up to show him how worn and dirtied it was. "You're welcome to it."

We laughed and turned to thumb through Sidney's books together. As sore as my shoulder still was, I could feel my spirits healing.

_A magical handkerchief with healing powers._ I smiled to myself. _I suppose it is. _


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Yikes, sorry again! I wrote this last night after spending eight hours studying, and I haven't posted it until now because I spend another six hours studying today... *cries*

I just wanted to address something really fast: some of you have commented that this story is good enough to publish. First of all, THANK YOU. Those (and all!) comments make me grin helplessly. But fanfiction is what I write just to practice. I write a lot of it and don't spend too terribly long editing. I do it for fun and don't plan out the entire story in advance. This is what I do as a stress reliever and to try out different styles of writing.

My "actual" writing, my original fiction and sometimes nonfictional reflections, are the ones that I really plan out and storyboard and put lots of effort into in the hope that they'll one day be ready to publish. So while I really, _really _appreciate the comments, I don't think you'll ever see this published. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE this story and all my readers, but that's just not how it's intended. Besides, it's a fanfic of a fanfic! The copyright issues make me shudder...

Enjoy this chapter because who knows when the next one will be out. *sigh*

* * *

**Chapter XI**

"Still nothing?" I asked when I saw Holmes's discouraged expression. He only glared at me from where he was crouched on his chair, which I took as an affirmative.

It had been over two months since my kidnapping and all of our leads had led to forceful and disappointing dead ends. It was as though someone was always one step ahead of us to erase the evidence or silence a voice, and the longer we searched the more I suspected that that was the case. Now it was nearing the end of March and Holmes's other cases were taking up his time. That very morning he had received a letter telling him to expect a visitor of no small importance later in the evening. I suspected that this case might last another week at the least.

Meanwhile, the trail was growing cold. I will not bore my reader with the details, but tedious hours spent identifying a few of my captors and tracing my way back to the place where I had been held had ended in failures. Loath as Holmes was to drop the case, we were forced to wait for another lead.

I had been drifting about the flat all morning, waiting for Holmes to toss ideas at me like he occasionally did, but was met only by a blank, intense stare. Eventually I fell back into the habit of cleaning, though I could feel disapproval aimed at me as I did so. Finally, as the hours of the afternoon wore on and neither Watson nor Mrs. Hudson had returned home to supervise Holmes, I resorted to digging my way through one of the incredibly dense volumes on chemistry which littered the flat.

I was just trudging through Dalton's atomic theory when I heard Watson come in downstairs. I shut the book, startled to see that it was dark and probably long past when I should have eaten supper, but I was trapped by the jovial doctor before I could make an exit.

"Hello Mary!" he cried delightedly, and I had no choice but to smile through my fatigue and discouragement. "Do you know that no fewer than five people stopped me today to ask about my stories? Five! I must say, Doyle is doing an excellent job as an agent. You're becoming a household name, Holmes," he added to the figure in the chair, which didn't so much as grunt.

Over recent months, I had been struggling to reconcile my feelings for Holmes. He who had begun as a revered acquaintance and then reluctant friend and finally enthusiastic mentor was so difficult that I had almost given up trying to disentangle the matter. On the one hand, I could not deny that I enjoyed his intellectual company more than any person I had ever met, and I certainly found him aesthetically pleasing. But could he ever really be anything beyond a friend? Occasionally I would think that I saw some flicker of deeper warmth in his eye when I made some clever point about a case, or a flash of harsh protectiveness when I massaged my slow-healing shoulder, but then it would be gone and I would decide that I had imagined it.

I startled back to myself when I realized that both men were watching me. "Oh, I'm sorry Uncle John. That's excellent! You know that I love your stories." Apparently I wasn't convincing enough because he seemed to droop slightly. I tried harder. "In fact, I can't wait for the next one! Perhaps I could sneak a read before Doyle gets his hands on it?"

Watson's smile brightened. "I think that that might be a possibility."

Holmes groaned. "I do hope that there will be less drama in this one, my dear fellow. The way you portrayed me was quite fantastical." Watson harrumphed.

It was true that I enjoyed Watson's stories from a literary perspective, though I had to agree with Holmes that they were slightly over-romanticized. Still, when one spends one's time reading Dalton's atomic theory, a little romance now and then is welcome.

Mrs. Hudson arrived home soon after that and brought up a cold supper, which the three of us ate in companionable silence. I caught myself humming Holmes's waltz once, but at a startlingly sharp glance from the detective quieted me once more.

That waltz haunted my dreams. I never knew the name of it, and even the melody was only a half-remembered echo, but it underscored my nighttime imaginings and sprang to my lips in a wistful hum as I worked. It represented safety, somehow, and home. After hearing it only a handful of times, that association was so strong that whistling it during my captivity had brought me warmth and comfort like nothing else.

As we finished our supper, we heard steps thudding up the staircase and Mrs. Hudson following them, clearly harried. "Sir, I must protest! No one may see Mr. Holmes without an appointment-"

The cloaked and masked figure burst into the room and Holmes stood, throwing me a look so sarcastically solemn as to be comical, and I had to conceal a laugh. "It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. Our visitor here is expected." He gestured the man to a chair, but he ignored it.

I observed Watson teetering on the edge of leaving and stood first. "Gentlemen," I announced to the room at large, "I thank you for the lovely evening, but I'm afraid I must retire." I neglected to mention that I was retiring to a closet downstairs for our guest's sake. "Good night."

Watson nodded politely and Holmes inclined his head in that odd familiar way of his. "Good night, my dear Russell."

I smiled a tired half-smile and held up the book I had been reading, questioning. He nodded again imperceptibly. I pulled the volume to my chest and curtseyed to the client; I was too exhausted to put my finger on it, but my subconscious at least had detected an air of power.

With that, I escaped to the dark of the staircase and the quiet of my closet.

"An interesting case?" I asked Holmes as I wandered back into the room the next morning and poured myself a cup from the delightful-smelling coffee on the table.

_I've gone from the maid to an honorary resident,_ I thought to myself with amusement. _I really should ask Mrs. Hudson about rent for my closet._

Holmes grunted thoughtfully from his chair: a typical response.

"You know," I said, blowing gently on the steaming cup, "we haven't worked a case together in a while."

"Really?" Holmes mused. "It was my understanding that we had been working on a very important kidnapping case since early January." There was no bite to his tone but the words were harsh enough.

I put down my cup so that I could effectively place both hands on my hips, hot anger flaring within me. "Holmes! Surely you don't think that I've lost interest in the case of my own kidnapping? Leads have been short lately; I only meant that it might be refreshing to solve someone else's problems for a change."

To my surprise, Holmes sighed wearily. "I apologize, Russell. That was unfair of me."

Anger fading, I poured another cup of coffee and gave it to him, sitting in the opposite chair with my own drink. "Apology accepted. But I do wish to hear about this case and the masked nobleman who brought it to you."

His voice almost bored, Holmes outlined a classic story of love and betrayal involving the King of Bohemia and an American actress. "However, Russell, I think that this is a one-man job. There is no intellectual challenge to it; my opponent will be quickly beaten."

"Hmm." I took a quick gulp of the scalding liquid to hide my doubt. "Very well then. I suppose I'll just go back to the _scintillating_ works of Dalton…"

This at least brought the beginning twitch of a smile to Holmes's mouth. "Rekindling your interest in chemistry, Russell? There is a rather complex experiment which I had been hoping to conduct this afternoon, but I must observe Miss Adler today. Perhaps you could carry on in my absence."

My heart sank at the idea of carrying out such a promising activity in solitude. "You wouldn't rather wait until we can do it together? What if I confuse my variables and compromise your results?"

Now he was smiling softly. "I am entirely confident in your capability, Russell."

An unexpected glow warmed my chest, creeping up my neck in the form of a flush. Holmes's compliments always caught me by surprise with their simplicity and honesty.

Suddenly, for the second time in twelve hours, heavy steps thumped towards the door, which swung open urgently. Detective Inspector Lestrade, a man with whom I had a delicate and mistrustful (more on his side than mine) relationship, stood in the opening, breathing heavily.

Holmes was on his feet in an instant with no sign of the hot drink he had been cradling mere seconds previously. "Well man, what is it?"

"You asked me to keep a look out for that Sidney fellow you claim had something to do with Miss Russell's trouble," Lestrade began, and while I could feel Holmes bristling at the DI's intentionally irksome word choice, he didn't interrupt. "Well, he's turned up."

Holmes made an impatient gesture that might have been funny under less-urgent circumstances. "And?"

"He's dead."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** I was going to try and do two chapters this weekend, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. Thank you again SO MUCH to those of you who have been reviewing, it really does make my day. Enjoy this chunk of words- it actually has some relevant plot stuff! Also Holmes and Russell apologizing to each other and Lestrade being sassy. Oh Lestrade...

This one also gets a little gory. Please use good judgment.

* * *

**Chapter XII**

Holmes rocked back onto his heels, a fraction of the tension leaving his body. "What do you mean dead?"

Lestrade huffed. "By 'dead' I mean that he has no heartbeat, he's not breathing, he's lost a lot of blood-"

"Lestrade!" Holmes shouted, and I jumped. I think that we were both of us shocked by the news but I was just trying to reconcile the fact of Sidney's death, whereas Holmes was determined to leap into action.

"What happened, Inspector?" I asked in a more reasonable tone before Holmes could act rashly. "I take it by your allusion to blood loss that this was no natural death?"

The detective grimaced. "Far from it." Suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking, he coughed and his eyes darted over to Holmes. "In fact, the details of the case are rather… disturbing. Perhaps Miss Russell would prefer to leave the room while we discuss it?"

Apparently Holmes only absorbed a few words of the discussion because he darted to the stand by the door, shrugging on his coat and selecting a hat. "I think that observing would really be better than discussing. After you, Lestrade." And with that, he shooed the other man out the door ahead of him.

I hovered indecisively for a minute, still holding my cooling coffee, until Holmes stuck his head back around the frame, clearly confused. "Come along Russell. Have you misplaced your coat?"

Thankful to have had the decision taken out of my hands, I slipped a coat over the pale green dress I was wearing (one of the more practical ones, thank God) and followed with all speed.

* * *

Since I had seen Sidney and discovered that he was responsible for my captivity, I had harbored no great feelings for the man, but I was not prepared for the carnage of the crime scene.

The body had been shoved partway underneath a derelict and abandoned cart several blocks north of the Tower of London. _I would not have liked to be the one to have found this,_ I thought weakly when the great spread of crimson came into view. A sheet was halfheartedly covering what parts of the body it could, but the killer had done an impressive job mangling and spreading the remains.

Here, with the buildings so close together, the light of the morning had not yet penetrated the dense brown fog. Holmes's dark coat soon became lost in the jumble of policemen and I was stranded with only my thoughts and the sound of his voice.

"Time of death?"

Lestrade, who had suddenly appeared in the fog to my right, was the one to answer. "Just after midnight, our man thinks."

This jolted me away from the part of me that was appalled by the gruesome murder and back to my logical self. "Holmes?"

"Yes, Russell." A brief breeze made him visible to me, crouched beside the cart with the body. He glanced up, then back at me. "What are you doing over there? Surely your spectacles don't provide you with such astounding vision. Come tell me what you think of this."

I ignored Lestrade's mumbled protests and stepped out into the open area around the body, wishing that I was wearing my male clothing rather than a limiting dress. Still, I picked my way over the blood drying in between the cobblestones with skirts held high and bit back the nausea. "Shouldn't Watson be here?"

"Why," Holmes asked sharply, "would you have preferred to stay at home drinking your coffee?" Despite his original sarcasm, as he lifted blood-stained hands from his examination of a solitary ear, he finally seemed to remember that I was not a hardened investigator. "My apologies, Russell," he said for the second time in an hour. "You are of course not expected to remain if the scene makes you uncomfortable."

I scowled and felt heat radiating from my ears at snickers from the officers who still circled us. I matched his original tone. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that my sensibilities are in no way offended by the sight of a scoundrel such as this who has been brought to justice, albeit by violent ends." Even as I spoke, the echoes of my friendship with the elderly bookseller brought a sour taste to my mouth. "I only thought that the good doctor's medical expertise might have been a worthwhile asset. But I defer to your good judgment."

Holmes looked taken aback, and in fact did not speak for several seconds. When he finally did, however, his tone was neither biting nor coddling; he was speaking only to a partner.

"I think not at this stage. It is fairly obvious that these wounds have been inflicted by a knife, similar in dimensions to the ones used in butchers' shops. What is more intriguing at this stage is how the body came to be in this position." He paused so that I might step closer and view his illustrating gestures. "It looks as though the body has been left in the position in which it fell. The coroner's report, I'm sure, will determine whether the mutilations were performed before or after death, which will aid in the resolution of this question."

I shuddered at the thought of such horrible torture being inflicted on any living person, but obediently bent to inspect the body. "Purely based on the amount of blood present, I would have to agree that the mutilations were performed here, and very soon after death if that was in fact when they took place. Your deductions about the weapon are perfectly sound," I said unnecessarily, "though I would add that the killer, assuming that it was the same person, was unusually enthusiastic."

"That would certainly be one way to describe it," Holmes said grimly.

Suddenly, I noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from a front pocket of Sidney's coat. I barely glanced at Lestrade as I slid my sleeve down over my hand to eliminate finger prints and clasped the corner, doing my best to disturb the scene as little as possible. Holmes leant over my shoulder to inspect it with me. Absorbed as I was, I was still acutely aware of his proximity.

It was a once-folded piece of paper, only faintly speckled with scarlet. On the front, in a vaguely-familiar, loopy script, were written the words _Miss Russell_. My hands barely shook as I unfolded it.

_Miss Russell_, the writing repeated:

_It pains me to think that I might die with you still thinking that I was responsible for the horrible things which were done to you in January of this year. When I remember how trusting you were of me and how much time you spent in my shop, and what excellent taste you had in literature, the thought of what happened sickens me._

"I would hope so," Holmes muttered as we both reached the end of the first paragraph. The acid in his voice was almost startling, but I had to put his odd behavior to the back of my mind.

_I know now that there will be no end to my manipulation. I will never escape the snare so masterfully set for me. I must shoulder much of the blame for your trials, Miss Russell, but please understand that it was entirely against my will. I wish you to know this before I succumb to the one torturing me._

_For you to understand this, I must share with you a part of my life which I had thought long passed. As I revealed to you when I visited you during your captivity, I am not from London. In fact, I am from the southern part of the United States. The particular place is of no relevance._

_A great many years ago I was a moderately successful plantation owner. I had a beautiful wife by the name of Anabelle and a few slaves to assist me with the crops. I was happy._

_When unrest between the North and the South began in earnest, I recognized that great changes were coming, and none of them would help me. I am not proud of the fact that I owned slaves, but I did free them before fleeing to England with Anabelle, who was with child, and our two-year-old daughter Sally. We watched from overseas as our beloved country became embroiled in a violent and destructive war, and I felt myself to be a coward for escaping rather than fighting._

_Regardless, we settled down in London and Anabelle and I worked together to create the shop. It was as much our child as Sally and her new brother, Thomas. Then I had to take a week-long trip to Dublin for business reasons. I left Anabelle and the children at our flat._

_When I returned home, expecting to be greeted by my family, I instead discovered a murder investigation. On August 4__th__ 1869, someone had crept into my home and slit the throats of my wife and children._

_I was a broken man after that. It took me many years before I would speak more than two words together. My grief eventually convinced the police that I could not have been the culprit, but there were always those who suspected me. To this day the murderer remains unknown._

_Three and a half years ago, when you had just begun to frequent my shop, I was approached by a reptile of a man. He only named himself as James but he knew impossible things about me and my family. He produced a letter which seemed to be in my own handwriting and which confessed to the murder of my wife and children. If I did not help him, he said, he would kill me and leave the note so that it would appear to have been suicide._

_Would you have done any different in my situation, Miss Russell? I suppose you would have. You and Mr. Holmes would have discovered some way to turn and attack your blackmailer. I envy you._

_My employer, so to speak, had discovered you. I do not know how, but he realized immediately how well you and Mr. Holmes would get on. This Mr. James has some great grudge against Mr. Holmes, and he wanted to use you against him. I will not say how I managed to secure your position at Baker Street, for doing so would put others in danger, but it was planned carefully and executed flawlessly. I was to monitor you and, eventually, plant the idea of falling for Mr. Holmes into your mind._

I shuddered as I remembered the seemingly-teasing words."I just want to make sure that a pretty young lady like you doesn't feel uncomfortable. He's quite the dashing young man, isn't he?" All of the sympathy for Sidney which had been accumulating in the recesses of my mind was lost in the dash of cold anger which followed.

_Rather than become his weakness as James had hoped, you two became fast friends. Holmes seemed to work even more efficiently than before with you at his side. I had no idea that the plan was to kidnap you to test his scheme, and, had I know, I would have accepted my inglorious death rather than put you in the way of such harm._

_The last two months have been spent hiding from the police and from Mr. James, but as I write this I know that my discovery is close at hand. I wish only to give you as much information as I can so that you may be better prepared to face this insidious threat, and to apologize from the depths of my soul both to you and to Mr. Holmes. If the two of you can come through this, with lives and friendship intact, then perhaps I have done some penance for all of my wrongs against you._

_Beware the Ides of March, Miss Russell._

_Albert Sidney_

I rocked back on my heels, stunned by the sheer quantity of information which had just completely changed the direction of the case. However I had very little time to contemplate it, and Sidney's curious choice of quotation, before the paper was snatched out of my hands.

"I can't have you removing evidence from the scene of the crime, Miss Russell," Lestrade said superiorly. "Scotland Yard is hot on the tail of this murderer. We think that we may have a few very important leads."

I nodded blankly, trusting that Holmes, who had stood beside me and was helping to pull me to my feet, would make the necessary inquiries. Fiery tears were threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes and my throat had constricted so that I could not speak.

"Go and wait over there, Russell," Holmes's voice said gently as I was propelled towards a wall. "We will return to Baker Street in a few minutes." I nodded again and leaned heavily against a brick building. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils and suddenly taking deep breaths wasn't enough. Water slid down my face in great round drops and my hands shook uncontrollably. The tremors spread through me until I could barely support myself, and I slumped lower and lower.

My impressions of Sidney had been correct. He was a lonely old man who never wanted to harm anyone. He had not been directly involved in my kidnapping… and now here he was, brutally murdered as his recompense for the killing of his family. And yet, and yet…

"Russell!" Holmes cried as my knees thudded to the cobblestone. My vision was too blurred with tears to see clearly but a pair of strong hands grasped my shoulders, pulling me back upright. "My dear Russell, there is a cab just here. Come along… yes, that's it, this way." The silent, fuzzy shapes of the policemen parted as I was led towards a hansom. It occurred to me through the haze of confusion and anger and grief that Holmes probably had to deal with very few crying women in his career. His kindness touched me.

Soon we were enveloped in the blackness of the cab. Holmes settled in the opposite corner, watching me.

"I'm sorry Holmes," I began several minutes later when I incorrectly guessed that I could speak without my voice breaking. "I don't know what came over me."

A surprisingly gruff voice answered. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Russell. When Lestrade told me that the scene was disturbing, I should have listened. I keep forgetting that you and Sidney used to be friends."

With some balance between us restored, at least, we rode in silence back to Baker Street.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** For anyone interested, the closest thing I've found to how I imagine Holmes and Russell's waltz is the YouTube video titled "Appassionata - Slow Waltz". It's lovely! :-D Thanks for reviewing and sorry for being terrible at time management.

Also, there's a bit of a hint in this chapter. See if you can pick it up.

* * *

**Chapter XIII**

I very nearly slept at my aunt's flat that night, simply to get away from it all, but then I started turning the security of the place over in my mind. If I were to stay there, I realized, I would be up the entire night jumping at shadows outside the window. At least knowing that Holmes was nearby would offer me some sense of security.

By the time we arrived back at Baker Street I had composed myself somewhat. I dragged a hand across my eyes to dislodge the last few droplets from my lashes and gave a great sniff before dismounting the hansom and trudging back inside.

Holmes followed unnecessarily close behind me as I made my way upstairs. Unfortunately for him I was more than a little fed up with his mercurial protectiveness and I escaped rather brusquely into my closet, shutting the door behind me.

The footsteps paused, as though Holmes was considering his words, but in the end he wisely passed on without speaking.

I fumbled around in the dark in a few minutes before I located a candle and match, and when I did the wavering yellow light seemed unsettlingly thin. It jumped and danced over the stacks of books which still lined the walls. Titles leapt out at me like leering faces._Grimm's Fairy Tales _and _Arabian Nights_ with their familiar stories suddenly seemed dark and twisted. Even the few nonfiction tomes looked ominous. The only book in the room which had not been purchased from Sidney's shop was a manuscript copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ which Watson had awkwardly presented to me a week or so after it made its Christmas debut.

"Beware the Ides of March," I murmured to myself as my eyes lighted on the copy of _Julius Caesar_ which I had clutched so delightedly on the day of my "interview" with Mrs. Hudson. I idly slid it from the pile in a puff of dust. Flipping through the pages I discovered all over again the crumbs from the biscuit Mrs. Hudson had given me one morning I had missed breakfast and the circular stain where I had absentmindedly left a teacup. Scrawled annotations and illegible symbols occasionally filled the margins to bursting, but they were all of them mine.

Just as I was sighing at my own naivety and preparing to replace the volume, the cover flapped purposefully open into my lap, revealing a loopy scrawl that was not my own. My heart stuttered as I realized that it matched the note which I had discovered on Sidney's body. The name was too smudged to read, but there was an address:

_1642 Charing Cross Road_

I had opened my mouth to call excitedly to Holmes before a thought struck me. If there was one thing I had learned from my months of therapy after my family's accident, it was that closure was important. What better way to find closure with Sidney than to solve his riddles myself?

Besides, the clue was clearly meant for me. Only I would know that he had quoted the same line as he originally handed me the book, and only I would immediately realize that the answer would lie in another book shop. I could not believe that this was another, infinitely more complex trap set for me by this Mr. James when the first one had worked so well.

There was so much information Holmes and I still needed to progress with the case: this man's appearance and mannerisms would be a good start, plus all of the information about Sidney's past which he had apparently deemed irrelevant. Sidney was not a stupid man. He knew that there was a good chance that the note would be read before it reached me, and that including too much information would only result in its confiscation, so he must have hidden it somewhere.

New confidence shooting through me with the chance to make headway on the case, I straightened my dress and brushed out my hair so that it was presentable by society's standars. I debated for a long time about taking some sort of weapon but eventually decided that Charing Cross was a suitably busy place. I would stay on the main streets and, if it became necessary, return to Baker Street and recruit the help of Watson and his military pistol.

As I ducked out onto the landing, temporarily blinded by the scarf I was tossing about my slim shoulders, I nearly knocked into Holmes, who was ascending the stairs with a full tea tray.

"Apologies Holmes," I threw behind me as I stumbled downwards, barely registering that there were two cups and saucers. "I'm going out for a while to clear my head. Best of luck on the Adler case!" _That's odd,_ I thought, _I've never known him to make tea for Watson before._

After a pause, during which I had made it all the way to the front door, Holmes called after me. "I know I needn't remind you of the dangers to you at the moment. While I am engaged on this case I hope you feel that you may ask Watson for any assistance which you may require."

I nodded up at him. "Thank you, Holmes. And I really do wish you luck."

He pulled a sour face. "I despise luck, as you very well know, Russell. But I appreciate the sentiment."

_And there's a sentence I never thought to hear out of his mouth. _I didn't spare myself the time to analyze his words, however, for I was anxious to be on my way.

Charing Cross Road, as many of my readers will know, is famous for its secondhand book stores. It was a favorite haunt of mine before I discovered Sidney's and still held a place in my heart as a congregating place of the literary-minded.

The address Sidney had given me, 1642, was another book shop as I had predicted. It was newer than Sidney's and its wares seemed to be in better condition. A cheerful bell jingled above the door as I stepped inside.

"Hello Miss," a plump middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted me.

"Good afternoon ma'am." I glanced around the shop and saw that, despite its apparent orderliness, I could identify no pattern to the way the books were arranged. "I wonder if you might help me find a copy of _Julius Caesar_?"

She gave me a surprisingly guarded look. "Would you prefer a new or used copy, Miss?"

I thought for a moment. If I expected it to be any help to me whatsoever in terms of clues, it must surely be a used copy, yet there didn't seem to be a single imperfect tome in the place. "Used," I said cautiously, trailing it off into a slight question without intending to.

Her face went blank and she drew a copy with warped covers up from underneath the counter. That was certainly promising. "And what will the second book be, Miss Russell?"

I started. It was obvious now that I was navigating a set of obstacles set by Sidney to ensure that whatever information he had hidden was not accidentally purchased by a customer on a budget. But a second book? I strained my memory and tried to picture that day. "Beware the Ides of March!" Sidney had exclaimed, but only after suggesting something else…

The words came to me like a shot of electricity. I licked my lips and twitched my fingers but tried desperately to be casual. "A little Virgil would be lovely, I think."

Suddenly the woman's gently-creased face broke into a smile. "Mr. Sidney is a friend of mine. I understand that you may be able to help him clear his name?"

I halted with my hand outstretched to receive the book. "I'm sorry, Ms…?

"Mrs. Poppy," she responded, smile beginning to falter. "Why do you apologize?"

"Mr. Sidney died early this morning," I said in a low voice, the words automatically conjuring an image of the dreadful scene. "He defied the man blackmailing him and was murdered near Whitechapel. I'm sorry," I added again as she turned white and staggered backwards to fall onto a chair.

After several moments of strained silence, Mrs. Poppy spoke. "The situation is clearly much more serious than I believed from my conversation with Sidney. It is possible that it has escalated in the intervening months." She looked up at me, her mouth forming a hard line. "I think perhaps you should leave."

And so I took my leave with neither argument nor farewell.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** SORRY! Things have been crazy, etc. etc. But I'm halfway through the next chapter already, so maybe another update tomorrow or Wednesday?

* * *

**Chapter XIV**

It was still early afternoon when I returned to Baker Street, book clutched uneasily in my hands, and Holmes was absent. I deduced that he was investigating Irene Adler. After all, whatever catastrophes plague us, the rent must be paid and reputations must be maintained. I indulged in a bitter sigh before I remembered that the entire point of investigating alone was, in fact, to be alone.

Watson sat reading in the parlor. I was loathe to reveal my task to him, yet the idea of spending another afternoon ensconced in my closet with only the light of a candle suddenly seemed claustrophobic. I casually wandered in and set the book and a few sheets of paper on the desk beneath the window.

Watson looked up. "Ah, Mary! Holmes tells me you had a bit of a frightening experience this morning."

_Damn him._ "I wouldn't say frightening, but the murder scene was quite… disturbing. I was merely taken aback by the killer's enthusiasm."

The man nodded sympathetically. "I certainly understand that! One never knows what one will see when investigating with Holmes. I've seen my share of brutality."

I gestured to the desk. "Do you mind if I join you? I think some analysis is the best thing for me to occupy myself."

"Of course! Go right ahead."

I settled into the chair and selected a pen from the eclectic collection spread across the desk. I neatly aligned my papers and expectantly cracked open the cover of the book.

If I had been expecting a neat encrypted list on the title page, I was sorely disappointed. The first ten pages were completely blank. On page eleven, faintly scribbled in pencil, was _Ujhangqe AB_.

I scowled at the paper, my mind racing. It was no language that I recognized, though it was possible that it was indeed a language. It seemed more likely that it was some kind of code.

Flipping through the book, I discovered and meticulously copied out the rest of the mysterious phrases:

_Ujhangqe, AB_

_Mbrnt av ufzm rqe ltvgw, xnmiy jsjr itls, f apgnfi gpkg._

_Sstyfkvpw_

None of them meant anything to me. The lack of repeated letters suggested that it was more than a simple replacement code. There was probably a key word that would allow me to solve the cipher.

Just as I was digging in to start testing words, the door downstairs opened and heavy boots began thumping inside. I jumped to my feet, suddenly panicked for some inexplicable reason. I didn't want Holmes to know that I was working on the case without him. I didn't want to confront my earlier weakness. I wanted to continue to make my own progress. Whatever it was, I swept up the book and papers and a couple of pens and walked briskly out of the room and down to my closet, much to Watson's surprise.

I slipped into the isolated space just as Holmes passed me going up the stairs and shut the door to cut off any greeting. I stumbled around looking for a candle, thinking that I really needed to keep them closer to the door, and eventually fell onto my mattress with a sigh.

Mechanically, as I had done with so many projects in the past, I opened the book and began thumbing slowly through the pages, looking for annotations. Perhaps I had missed something. I tried not to eavesdrop on Holmes's conversation with Watson, but eventually the half-heard words began to drive me crazy. Using only the point of my toe, so as to convince myself that the action might be accidental, I eased the door open a crack.

"My dear Watson, she has the voice of an angel."

My leg twitched in surprise and the door shut with an audible snap. What on earth? Holmes actually complimenting a woman? This Irene Adler must truly be something extraordinary.

Scowling for some reason I couldn't quite explain, I set about decoding the writing.

* * *

A day passed, and another. I was absolutely obsessed with solving Sidney's puzzle, and with doing it myself. Most of my hours were spend locked in my closet going through candle after candle and endless cups of coffee. I could feel the color leaching from my skin and my hair snarling and sticking to my neck with the effort of the thought. When the headache got too bad, I would make a sandwich in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and sleep for a few hours until I had the physical capability to sit back up and keep trying.

_Ujhangqe AB_ suggested a city and the abbreviation for a state. I obtained a map of the South the first evening and pored over it, compiling a list of eight-letter cities. This produced dozens of possibilities, so I alternated between that option and other strategies of decoding. When I grew exhausted from staring at the same series of letters for so long, I tried to find some order in the longer sentences. The obvious solution would be to replace the most common letter with e, but this yielded no results.

Finally, the second evening (or perhaps early morning), I tried Richmond, VA in the place of the first set of letters. It was the last in a sub-category which I had organized through a complex algorithm of alphabetical order and city population.

I actually dropped my pen when I realized that the differences in letters caused a repeating pattern of numbers: 3, 1, 5, 19, 1, 18, 3, 1, 5, 19. I scribbled out the alphabet at the top of the paper to avoid errors of exhaustion and translated the numbers to letters: Caesarca ES. It was a repetition of the word "Caesar." That was the key.

With a burst of renewed purpose, I used the repeated slip cipher to translate the rest of the words:

_Richmond VA_

_James is tall and gaunt, with grey hair, a hooked nose._

_Professor._

That was plenty enough information to get a real investigation going. I would talk to Holmes at dawn and we could decide how much to give to Scotland Yard and what to pursue ourselves. I heard the clock downstairs chime and decided that it would be better to sleep then while I could.

Without bothering to undress or do anything besides blow out the candle, I collapsed over onto the mattress and slept.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Had the day off, decided to do something semi-productive. Enjoy! Please review! Stay awesome! Freak out over the _Doctor Who_ finale! Augh!

And happy Veterans' Day. :-D

* * *

**Chapter XV**

Just after dawn the next morning I strode into 221B's sitting room, crumpled pages of decoding attempts clutched in my hand. I had slept for no more than a handful of hours but my victory had renewed me.

Holmes sat reading the newspaper at the breakfast table, and, unusually, Watson accompanied him. He glanced up as I came in but raised an eyebrow when his eyes lighted on my face. "Why Russell, what carriage driver had the misfortune to incur your wrath by running you over?"

I had no time for his playful insults, though I surprised even myself when I glanced in the mirror above the mantle. My frizzy hair was barely contained in a bun; the circles under my eyes resembled bruises from a fight more than anything else. With my pallor and sunken cheeks I bore an eerie similarity to a skull. I smiled in a way which I knew would bare my teeth and keep my eyes shining coldly. "Indeed, Holmes, the fellow who inflicts such a battering on you during your cases seems to have hunted me down as well. I shall have words with him. Rather like looking in a mirror, isn't it?"

Not even a twitch of his lips for my effort. Ah, well. "What do you think of this cipher?" I handed him the page which contained only the original words from the book.

He scanned it cursorily. "I would say that it is a slip cipher of the sort which requires a key word. Its context might reveal potential matches. But why are you asking me when you've already solved it?" I was ready to roll my eyes and move on to my big reveal, but Watson widened his eyes and dropped his jaw in that way that Holmes's inflated ego can never resist. He leaned across the table as though to speak confidentially to his friend while I waited, impatient. "Her fingers are shaking from coffee consumption, you see, and her general appearance suggests intense absorption with some problem or other. The fact that she only now brings it to me after being so determined to solve it herself reveals that either she has reached a dead end, which, considering Russell's intelligence, I find difficult to believe, or that she wishes to gloat after completing the puzzle."

I handed over the results, barely registering the hidden compliment. "We now know Sidney's home town, a physical description of James, and his profession." As he read quickly through the phrases, his eyes widened. This was more surprise than I had been expecting. "Holmes?"

"Say that again." Barely more than a whisper between his pale lips. A few drops of rain splattered against the window in the silence.

I repeated myself slowly and deliberately, trying to catch whatever he had caught. "We now know Sidney's home town, a physical description of James-" here I was halted by a raised hand. "Of James…" I trailed off again, realization dawning on me.

Holmes and I made a leap for his self-compiled encyclopedias at the same time. I reached them sooner as he first had to clear the obstacle of the table and flipped quickly to the appropriate page. A few newspaper clippings related to unsolved crimes, and a sketch of a professor with grey hair and a hooked nose.

"Surely not?" Now it was my turn to whisper. "Why would he only give Sidney his first name?"

"To play with us," Holmes muttered. "He's been toying with us this entire time, using you to get to me. Even the letter might have been a ploy."

He tossed the book abruptly onto the table, where Watson leaned over interestedly to read, and grabbed my shoulders. "Russell, this is very important. Where did you get this cipher?"

I shrugged his hands off. "1642 Charing Cross Road. The line at the end of Sidney's letter was the same one he quoted when he first sold me a copy of _Julius Caesar_, the day before I began work at Baker Street. I found that book, which contained the address, and there I met a Mrs. Poppy who claimed to have been Sidney's friend. I jumped through a series of hoops to obtain another copy of the book, which contained the encrypted words. You're right, I wanted to figure it out myself."

Watson finally caught up and stood, knocking over his cup of tea. "You mean that Moriarty was behind Miss Russell's kidnapping?"

"Or someone wants us to think he is," Holmes said darkly, darting to the door to snatch his coat. He tossed another at Watson and one at me, apparently not realizing that it was another of his, and prepared to leave.

"Holmes," I said softly, stopping him in his tracks. "I've had six hours of sleep in the last three days. You yourself have just finished a case. Frankly, I'd like a bath and a proper meal before we run off somewhere. Moriarty isn't going to make a move in the next two hours."

I received a cold glare in return. "No, but this might be over in the next two hours-"

"Holmes!" This time he was clearly listening. "You can't just go kill Moriarty, or whatever it is you're planning to do." I threw the coat back to him. "I'm going to go eat. You and Watson can do whatever research ritual it is that you do. Yes," I said, anticipating his question, "I'll give you both books. We can discuss when I get back." And with that I left the two men staring at each other.

* * *

When I returned to the sitting room, refreshed and ready for investigation in the outfit Ronnie had given me, I was surprised to see Holmes sitting and smoking in his chair by the fire. Watson sat at the desk, scribbling furiously.

"So what's the plan?" I asked, a little confused by the overall lack of action.

"I want to get this Irene Adler case down as soon as possible, while it's fresh in my mind!" Watson explained without looking up. Holmes didn't break his staring contest with the flames.

I walked over to read the first few lines over his shoulder. "'To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman,'" I said in a voice so dramatic as to be sarcastic. "'I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.'" Here I paused to affect an expression of mock-indignation. "I beg your pardon, Uncle John! 'It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler,'" I continued, waggling my eyebrows. "'All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind.'" Here I burst into laughter.

"Dear God Watson!" Holmes explained, finally twisting around to glare coldly at us. "I shudder to think what you've done to the rest of the case if that is how you begin! And a shame, too," he said thoughtfully, his speaking becoming slightly distorted as he replaced the pipe in his mouth, "for it was indeed an interesting one."

Watson spluttered. "I hardly think it is your place to criticize my embellishments of your stories, Holmes, when it is this pen which contributes so heavily to the rent!"

"Don't worry, Uncle John, it is only that his 'cold, precise but admirably balanced mind' cannot comprehend the beauty of your prose." I patted his shoulder as he grumbled under his breath. Perching myself in the chair opposite Holmes, not even my dear friend's disapproval could keep me from laughing. "I look forward to reading this one! Whatever this Miss Adler did to eclipse _me_ must have been quite impressive."

"Really, Russell," Holmes reprimanded, "I think that the situation calls for a slightly more serious response."

"Indeed," I lamented, "for Irene Adler has claimed your heart."

"_Russell._"

"Oh all right."

The scratching of Watson's pen filled the few moments of silence which Holmes spent staring at me, though even I could not identify the emotion behind the gaze. Anger? Or perhaps just thoughtfulness?

"If you're quite willing, perhaps you could review what we know of the case so far."

I took a deep breath. "Sidney was being blackmailed by Professor Moriarty-"

"_Everything_, if you please, Russell."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," I said airily and settled myself comfortably into my chair. "This is what we know:

"Sidney was a slave owner in or near Richmond, Virginia. When it became clear that Civil War was inevitable, he, his pregnant wife, and their daughter relocated to London, where they opened a bookstore. Some time afterwards someone killed Sidney's wife and children while he was in Dublin. After overcoming his depression, he threw himself into the running of the store.

"Two months before my employment at Baker Street began, which would have been January of 1885, Sidney was approached by Professor Moriarty, who gave his name only as James- at least, according to the letter found on Sidney's body which was supposedly written by him. This man threatened to release a letter in Sidney's handwriting which would confess to the murder of his family. In order to avoid this fate, Sidney had to engineer it for me to come work for Mrs. Hudson.

"When this succeeded, he continued to monitor my progress." I briefly debated revealing that he had planted the idea of falling in love with my mentor, but decided that Holmes had already reached that conclusion. "Eventually, Moriarty organized my kidnapping. Sidney disagreed with this and went on the run, until he returned to London and was brutally murdered."

"We presume," Holmes continued smoothly when I stopped for breath, "that this was done by one of Moriarty's henchmen. You also neglected to mention the fact that someone went to the bother of carving a fairly arbitrary- though disturbing, admittedly- message into your back. And there were multiple guards, both male and female, outside your cell. That could very well be important."

"There are any number of small things that could be important, Holmes!" I sighed. "So where do we begin?"

"If you'll permit me now, Russell," Holmes said drily, "I thought we could pay the man himself a visit. That might offer some answer."

My throat went dry even as I automatically followed his lead and stood. "You mean…"

"Yes Russell! We must speak with Moriarty! He hardly keeps his location secret, after all."

Watson finally looked away from his writing. "Are you really sure that's wise, Holmes?"

A raised eyebrow was his only response as the detective strode out and down the stairs.


End file.
